


this dream was me and you

by oatrevolution



Series: exercises in free love [1]
Category: Bohemian Rhapsody (Movie 2018), Queen (Band)
Genre: Bottom Freddie Mercury, Everybody Lives, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Internalized Homophobia, M/M, Period-Typical Homophobia, Rape/Non-con Elements, Rough Sex, The 1970s, complicated family dynamics, drama that turns into fluff, feelings are hard, freddie eventually learns how to act like a mature adult, freddie is a brat, happy ending or bust, jim is the best cinnamon roll, paul prenter continues to be a horrible person, queen is the bitchiest band in the world (but they love each other)
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-09-01
Updated: 2021-01-25
Packaged: 2021-03-06 21:47:54
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 11
Words: 59,545
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26225896
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/oatrevolution/pseuds/oatrevolution
Summary: Freddie Mercury meets Jim Hutton at a London club in 1976.Lives are changed.
Relationships: Freddie Mercury/Paul Prenter (minor), Jim Hutton/Freddie Mercury
Series: exercises in free love [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1904767
Comments: 123
Kudos: 85





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Me: I dunno, RPF is kind of weird, isn't it?  
> Also Me: I WILL GIVE FREDDIE MERCURY A HAPPY ENDING IF IT KILLS ME
> 
> Because I am still very, very new to this whole thing, my maiden voyage is close to "canon" because I felt more comfortable there LOL. Also, sorry not sorry, but Jim and Freddie are freaking adorable and deserve to live together forever in an alternate universe created by the sheer power of my belief. I WILL MAKE IT HAPPEN.  
> 
> 
> **Original end note for the first chapter:**  
>  I'm deeply ashamed to admit this, but before the BoRhap movie I knew exactly two things about Freddie Mercury: 1) He had a mustache, and 2) he died of AIDS. You could fill books with all the things I did not know about Freddie. I think I've bought most of them, in fact. I know so many things now.
> 
> I think this is usually where you can ask people to contact you on Twitter or Tumblr or whatever, but I don't have any of those. If anyone wants to talk to me about Freddie and Queen anyway, somehow, I would be eternally grateful. I think I'm boring my family to tears by spouting out random pieces of information every ten minutes. There are probably only so many times I can force them to listen to my Queen playlist and attempt to persuade them that Innuendo is a masterpiece of a song.

**Summer, 1976**

The music’s beat thuds through Jim’s body like a second heartbeat, pulsing in his head, his core. He leans back against the bar, watching the gyrating crowd, tapping his foot absently to the thump of the bass. It’s not really his scene, usually, but he’s happy enough observing while he waits for John to get back from the loo. The colored lights swirl on bare skin, muscled arms, broad shoulders. He takes a last, lingering swig of his lager and sets the empty can down.

“Let me get you the next one.”

Jim turns his head in surprise. The man beside him has his forearms braced on the edge of the bar and his face tilted up toward Jim’s. He has big brown eyes and shoulder-length black curls and a truly unfortunate overbite peeking out from under his full top lip. He’s also tiny, a little slender wisp of a thing with no meat on his bones at all, and Jim wouldn’t be interested even if he wasn’t already taken. He doesn’t go for men so slight.

“No, thanks,” Jim says politely, turning away again.

“Why not?” the man asks, a coy smile in his voice. “What else are you doing tonight?”

“I’m here with my boyfriend.”

“Boyfriend! And where is _he_ when you’re here all alone, darling?” The man leans in closer, still staring up at Jim, until his chest presses against his arm. He’s wearing a very thin vest under a leather jacket and Jim can clearly feel his heat.

Deliberately, Jim steps away, putting as much space between them as he can with the bar as crowded as it is. “He’s in the bathroom and he’ll be back any moment. You should try elsewhere, mate. I’m not interested.”

“I promise,” the man says, smiling, trailing slender fingers across the back of Jim’s hand, “I can be _very_ interest—”

Jim knocks his hand away, scowling. “Fuck _off_ ,” he snaps.

The man stares at him, arm dropping back to his side. It’s hard to tell with the flashing lights and general dimness, but Jim thinks he sees incredulity slipping into his expression. He purses his mouth slightly, hiding his teeth, then shrugs his shoulders in a _what can you do?_ sort of way. Without another word, he pushes away from the bar and slips back into the crowd.

A moment later, John returns, taking the man’s vacated spot by Jim’s side. “Christ, I’m knackered,” he declares.

“Some bloke just tried to chat me up,” Jim says, still in disbelief at the man’s nerve. “Total fucking asshole.” He squints into the crowd and, from the slightly higher vantage point at the bar, sees the man emerge from between dancing couples and throw himself into the corner booth, among other men who must be friends.

John perks up at this tidbit. “What? Really? Who?” He doesn’t sound angry, just curious.

“That one in the corner.” Jim points. “With the leather jacket.”

“That’s Freddie Mercury!” John says, astonished.

John comes to this sort of club a lot more than Jim does, so he assumes that this Freddie person must be a regular, the sort whose name you learn if you’re part of the scene. Maybe he’s even made a pass at John in the past, a thought that sits unpleasantly in his stomach. Jim’s perfectly happy to let the subject die there, and just says, “Shall we head back, then?”

“Good idea, yeah,” John says, casting Jim one odd look before he lets the topic drop. “Before we don’t have any money for a taxi or even a bus ride. Yes, let’s.”

They settle the bar tab and leave side-by-side, talking amiably all the way to the taxi stand and their small flat. Jim has entirely forgotten about Freddie Whoever by the time he climbs into bed.

After all, it’s not like they’ll ever meet again.

-

Freddie honestly doesn’t know what to feel.

Lust, yes, obviously—that man was a dream come true, a real man, big and burly, who actually wants to use his sexual strength on others of the same gender. Or, at least, theoretically he does, because he had rejected Freddie quite handily. Anger, then—who dares to say no to Freddie _fucking_ Mercury? The anger should trump the lust, really, in a logical system, but Freddie never has been one for logic. There’s an undercurrent, too, of an entirely different kind of attraction, mixed with curiosity—so why did he say no? Is he not impressed by fame? What does he do for a living? Why didn’t he jump at the chance to fuck Freddie Mercury? Why? Why? Why?

After that spectacular blowout, he was too pissed off to try picking anyone else up. But when he got home, he found his huge bed empty, and cold, and lonely, and could hardly sleep at all for dwelling on his aloneness and filthy imaginings of what he wanted (still wants) the good-looking Irishman to do to him. He’d been so sure he would pull him that being told to fuck off, literally, had been a sharp jolt to his system.

He closes his eyes and imagines the man on top of him, pressing him into the mattress. He imagines kissing that warm, inviting mouth, imagines calloused hands gripping his hips and leaving bruises. He just knows that man had a big cock, he could _feel_ it—he _wants_ to feel it, to ride it until the pleasure overwhelms him. He aches to be held down and forced to take it, fucked until he’s too sore to walk properly. And then the Irishman would hold him, pet him, cradle him, keep him safe in those strong arms—

Freddie bolts upright in bed, scrubbing a hand through his hair. God, he wishes he hadn’t been in such a foul mood last night—he could use a fuck, a big dick inside him to scrub away all his thoughts.

“Fuck,” he says aloud. He hates how tired he sounds.

Sighing, he slides out of his lonely bed, pausing absently at the foot to pet Jerry. The cat is soft and curled in a neat little knot; he can’t stop himself from scooping him up, ignoring his small grumbles as he gathers him close against his chest, burying his face in sleep-warm fur. Jerry complains but doesn’t struggle.

“You love me, don’t you, baby?” Freddie whispers into his neck. He presses a kiss beside Jerry’s ear and puts him back on the bed, watching fondly as he immediately sits down and starts washing himself.

After a few moments, though, the warmth fades, along with what remains of his smile. The day stretches on before him, endless until evening. He needs the club, the throb of the music in his heart, a man’s touch, a hard cock to suck or put inside himself. Freddie imagines the Irishman again, how his strong hands would sweep down the line of his spine, and shakes the thought away with a growl.

This is pathetic. He’ll get fucked tonight and he’ll forget the Irishman. Tonight he won’t sleep alone, and that’s all that matters.

It turns out it isn’t that easy.

For someone he only spoke to for two minutes, the burly Irishman has done an amazing job of burrowing under his skin. Freddie drinks hard, parties hard, fucks hard, and still he won’t scrub out. The hands on him are wrong. The voices moaning in his ear don’t have the right timbre. He closes his eyes, opens them, feels like reality is spinning apart, like nothing quite matches up anymore.

If only the man had just _fucked_ him, this wouldn’t be a _problem_ , he thinks furiously, lighting his tenth cigarette of the day with shaking fingers. Brian glances at him from across the room and looks away, twisting knobs on the console.

A hand rests on his shoulder, thumb pressing into his spine. “You all right, Freddie?” Paul asks. Even he’s all wrong, though he’s the closest thing Freddie has, and with Paul his bed is never empty.

“I’m fucking _fine_ ,” Freddie snaps, shrugging Paul’s hand off roughly. He takes a deep drag then shoves himself to his feet. He’s going to crawl out of his skin. “I’m going for a fucking walk,” he announces, and slams out of the room. Nobody tries to stop him.

Outside, the cool autumn air washes across his hot cheeks; he tries to breathe it in, tries to freeze out the black fury clawing at his ribs. He’s still shaking.

The door opens again behind him, closes. Paul’s voice: “Freddie?”

“Fuck off,” Freddie says harshly, sucking smoke into his lungs, blowing it out. There’s a fire blazing inside him. He’ll burn up from the inside out, vanish like flashpaper.

Footsteps, and Paul’s suddenly beside him, grabbing his arm. “ _Don’t_ tell me to fuck off.”

Freddie whirls, swings at him, but Paul catches his wrist with his other hand and shoves him up against the building. They press together, straining. The cigarette falls from Freddie’s fingers and he makes a small, pained noise, Paul’s hands bruisingly tight on him, one of Paul’s legs pushing his thighs apart.

“You _don’t_ fucking talk to me that way,” Paul says, shaking him roughly. “Where do you get off, huh, thinking you can mouth off like that?”

And just like that, the anger burns out, replaced by a sort of hollow blankness. Freddie stops struggling and lets his head droop. He doesn’t apologize, because he never apologizes.

“I should just leave you here, if you’re going to be such a bitch,” Paul says. “Make my own way tonight.”

Freddie’s head whips up. “No! Wait, darling, don’t,” he says desperately. He pushes against Paul’s grip, though this time he’s trying to get closer, not away. One of his legs hooks around Paul’s hip. “You don’t have to,” he says, seductive, tilting his chin and looking up through his lashes the way he knows Paul likes. “I can make it up to you.”

Paul studies him for a long moment. His face is impassive, but Freddie can feel him getting hard against him. “You had better,” he says finally, and leans in to kiss him.

This, Freddie thinks, pressing into Paul and whining. This is all he needs. Paul is close enough. Paul has strong hands that he uses to pin Freddie to the bed. Paul has a big cock that stretches him in all the right ways, drives into him over and over until he’s breathless and aching with pleasure. Paul has a pleasant voice when he whispers in Freddie’s ear that he’s so fucking tight, so hot, fuck, Freddie, you take cock like you were fucking born for it. Paul doesn’t hold him, not really, but he does stay afterwards, and the bed is warm with him there.

It’s enough, Freddie tells himself, closing his eyes and trying not to want a bigger man pressed to his back, dark hair tickling his neck.

One day, Peter Straker comes over to Freddie’s apartment and says, “Hey, you remember that guy who turned you down at Cocobana? I saw him out last night at the pub.”

“You _what?_ ” Freddie shrieks, whipping around in his chair.

Peter seems pleased to have gotten such a big reaction, the big fucking drama queen. “Yeah, the big, dark-haired bloke who was at the bar, the one who told you to fuck off,” he says with relish. “He was at the pub.”

“Oh,” Freddie huffs, and forces himself to stay seated, slinging one leg over the other and crossing his arms, “he was probably out with his _boyfriend_ again, darling.”

“No, he was on his own. Just sat at the bar again, just watching. Terribly boring, really, I’d have thought.”

Freddie grunts. He refuses to believe it, absolutely refuses. Peter does love his little stories. But he finds himself, next time he’s out in the car with Terry, driving by the pub and sending him in to check. And again, and again, every day of the week, just to be absolutely sure, until on Thursday Terry comes back saying that it does look like the same man, and he is indeed sitting at the bar, drinking alone.

Even though Freddie finds himself quite unequal to the idea of going in himself, it somehow steadies the world around him when he sends Terry in to peek every Thursday and every Thursday Terry returns, like clockwork, to report that the Irishman is still there, still at the bar, still alone. Freddie himself still goes to Heaven most every night, but the drive isn’t what it was—the desperation isn’t there, maybe—he has Paul when he needs to get fucked, and crazy daydreams of walking up to the Irishman at the pub to occupy himself with in spare moments. He feels like a teenager again, awkward and confused and horribly shy in a way he hasn’t been in years.

Peter notices, and laughs at him. Phoebe notices, but kindly doesn’t mention it. Paul notices, and fucks him harder than ever.

In a way, Paul is the only thing reminding him that he is a man now, a rock star who can have any man he wants. With Paul on top of him, inside of him, he’s Freddie fucking Mercury, and he’s king of the world. While he waits in the back of the car for Terry to report back, he feels like shy little Freddie Bulsara, the buck-toothed teenager who has only ever dreamed of kissing a man, and even then only in the dark, the house silent around him, heart racing so fast it feels as though it’ll burst, fear burning tracks in his brain because his parents have to _know_ , they have to _sense it_ , this ugly, perverted _thing_ he is that he tries to hide away, a wretched creature that longs for another man’s touch and to rest his head on another man’s bare chest as he falls asleep.

He shouldn’t meet the Irishman, no matter how much the awkward boy he used to be wants to. He doesn’t normally pick the safe option, but in this case, he’s actually a little afraid of what will happen if he doesn’t. He’s given up fighting the wrong thing inside him, but that doesn’t mean he’s stupid. He _knows_ he can’t have what he wants. People like him don’t get that sort of thing, and anyway, he doesn’t deserve it.

That’s when the impossible happens and, as usual, all of Freddie’s good intentions go out the fucking window.

**Summer, 1977**

Jim hasn’t been to Heaven in months, but it’s exactly like he remembers: loud, dark, and full of flashing colored lights and half-dressed men. He’s so drunk that he can hardly feel his legs, and Heaven looks like he feels—chaotic and swirling with energy.

He makes his way to the bar because for some reason more alcohol seems like a good idea, even though he has almost no cash left in his pocket and he still needs to get home later. Accidentally putting his elbow in a spilled drink when he leans forward, he waves down the bartender.

“Hey, one can of Guinness, yeah?”

“Sure, mate, one second,” the man calls back, ducking under the bar for a bottle of vodka.

“Let me buy this one for you,” someone else says, over Jim’s shoulder.

It’s the man from almost a year earlier—Freddie Something, slender and doe-eyed, the one John had known for some reason. He’s cut his hair a bit shorter and the big, loose curls frame his distinctive features like a halo. Jim remembers his black leather jacket and the protruding teeth, which are oddly adorable through Jim’s drunken haze, peeking out from under his top lip.

Jim is really quite drunk and everything that should make him hesitate doesn’t seem to matter. He says, “No, let me get you a drink.”

Freddie Something blinks, then smirks and slips into the small space next to Jim. “All right,” he purrs. “I’ll have a vodka tonic.”

Well, there goes the last of Jim’s money. He signals to the bartender anyway and passes the order along.

“So,” Freddie Something says, laughing and bright, “how big is your dick?”

Jim actually splutters, so caught off guard that he can’t physically respond for a few seconds. “That’s none of your business!” he exclaims, finally. “And for God’s sake, drop the fake American accent.”

“I haven’t got one!” Freddie Something says, indignant, and then he starts laughing again. It’s so infectious that Jim can’t help but join in. “I’m Freddie,” he says, which Jim already knew.

“Jim,” he replies, and then their drinks arrive. He takes a quick swig of his beer to steady himself.

Freddie scoops his vodka tonic off the bar with one long-fingered hand but doesn’t immediately drink. “So, Jim,” he says, “do you want to move down the way to stand with my friends?”

“Sure,” Jim says, taking another drink. _Why not?_

A smile flickers across Freddie’s face. He runs his fingers through his fluffy black hair and then takes Jim’s hand, tugging him through the crowd.

Jim looks down at their clasped hands, Freddie’s slim and almost delicate in his grip, like something precious. His chest twinges but he’s distracted when Freddie pushes through to a raucous group of men at the center of the bar, raising his vodka tonic and calling, “Peter, darling!”

They all turn at the call and it’s therefore impossible to tell which one is Peter. “I thought you got kidnapped,” one of them says, then spots Jim. His eyebrows raise. “ _Hello_ there.”

“This is Jim,” Freddie says, leading Jim into the midst of the small cluster. He doesn’t let go of his hand. “I found him over there by himself.”

“Welcome to the entourage, Jim,” a different man chirps.

“Yes, lovely to meet you,” the first one adds. He’s staring at Jim with avid interest.

Freddie, apparently bored with this, quickly goes through the group, pointing to each of his friends as he says his name. The first one who spoke, it turns out, is Peter, and he sidles up beside Freddie when the introductions are done.

“Well, _you’ve_ made quite the catch tonight,” he says suggestively.

“Don’t get any ideas, Peter, he’s mine!” Freddie retorts. He plasters himself to Jim’s side; Jim automatically slips his arm around his tiny waist, under his jacket. His t-shirt is thin and Jim can feel the curve of his spine against his palm. “Now, what were we talking about before I found Jim?”

Jim honestly has no idea what they talk about, and they talk for at least an hour. Peter and Freddie are chatterboxes once they get going, with the ability to speak almost incomprehensibly quickly—though it doesn’t help that Freddie buys everyone two more rounds of drinks and they’re all smashed. Freddie hangs off Jim’s arm or shoulder, and he gets used to the slight weight of him quickly, like they’ve done this before. He’s not sure about Freddie’s friends—the dynamic seems odd and he can’t quite figure it out—but Freddie himself is warm and funny and Jim finds that he likes him a lot.

At some point, Freddie turns to him and asks, “Do you want to dance?”

“Yeah, let’s go,” Jim agrees, rubbing his hip through the material of his jeans.

Freddie grins, discards their drinks and his jacket—which he throws at one of the other men in the group, whose name Jim has totally forgotten, and who takes it quite amiably—and drags Jim off onto the dance floor. Other bodies press around them, but somehow they find a clear space and Freddie twirls into Jim’s arms, throwing his wrists around his neck. His thin, scoop-necked t-shirt clings to his slim torso, and even though Jim isn’t really into slender men, he’s fascinated. He can’t help but touch, running his palms up and down Freddie’s sides.

“Well?” Freddie says, smirking, raking his fingernails through Jim’s hair.

Jim arches an eyebrow. “You sure you can handle it?”

“Darling, I can handle anything you give me.”

With a bit of alcohol in his system, Jim doesn’t feel so self-conscious about his untrained dancing, and it’s the work of a moment to spin Freddie away from him and whirl him back, the two of them more or less careening through the crowd. Freddie is so light that he’s easy to throw around, and he seems delighted by the experience, smiling and laughing, contributing as best he can by pressing against Jim when he pulls him back. Their lips almost brush before he flies away again. At the farthest extent of Jim’s arm, connected by their entwined fingers, he tosses his head back, sweat glistening on the long column of his throat; his hips move like sin.

Songs blend into each other and time presumably passes, though it doesn’t feel like it. Jim honestly hasn’t had so much fun in a club before. Freddie’s enjoyment is infectious, and every time he throws himself back on Jim, grinning, bangs sticking to his forehead with sweat, Jim only becomes more attracted to him.

Finally, they actually collide with another couple and Freddie trips into his chest, screaming with laughter. Jim catches him automatically, apologizing as best he can over the loud music and Freddie’s hysterics.

“Just watch where you’re fucking going,” one of the men snaps. His partner shushes him, oddly, his eyes flickering over the two of them, and they melt back into the crowd.

“We should probably get back to your friends,” Jim says. He’s only just becoming aware of how much his feet hurt.

“Oh, all right, if you insist,” Freddie says cheerfully. “What the fuck time is it, do you know?”

Jim checks his watch, blinks at it in shock. “Nearly four.”

“God, already? The time just flies with you, darling.” Long fingers brush against his throat, lingering on his Adam’s apple as Freddie smirks. “We should go back to my place. We’re less likely to collide with boors that way.”

“If you say so.” Jim lets his hand slide to the small of Freddie’s back, just edging onto the swell of his ass.

Freddie looks quite pleased. “I do say so. Come along, then.” He leans in to breathe across Jim’s neck, teeth almost scraping his skin, then laces their fingers together and leads him back to the bar. His hips sway provocatively.

“Do you want another drink?” one of Freddie’s friends asks when they return.

“Ooh, if they can whip one up in a snap, yes, dear,” Freddie says. While the man signals to the bartender, Freddie adds, “We’re going back to mine, so finish up your drinks, darlings! There’s more fun to be had at my flat.”

Everyone cheers. Freddie grabs the offered vodka tonic from the bar and downs it in one gulp, slamming the glass back down when he’s done.

“Right, let’s go!” he calls, swirling one finger in a circle up above his head. In one of the more surreal experiences of Jim’s life, when he turns to leave, pulling Jim with him, everyone else immediately falls in around him, like it’s all somehow been choreographed. A moment later Jim has forgotten the strangeness because Freddie is smiling at him, brown eyes warm, leading him onto the cold, dark streets and into the back of a car. A man whose name Jim doesn’t remember gets behind the wheel and Peter steals the passenger’s seat.

“Looked like you two were having fun,” he comments, turning around to look at them over the headrest.

“Mmm, Jim’s _very_ strong,” Freddie purrs, gaze hot on Jim’s face. He trails his fingertips along the back of Jim’s hand, up his forearm, raising goosebumps in his wake.

“You were quite the dancer yourself,” Jim replies. He rests his own hand on Freddie’s knee, feels him shudder. “You really know how to put on a show.”

Freddie giggles and leans into Jim’s side, resting his chin on his shoulder. “Oh, darling, you have _no_ idea,” he whispers in his ear.

Peter actually snorts as he turns back around, but nothing matters to Jim except Freddie, who looks at him like he’s good enough to eat.

The driver is amazingly competent for how drunk he is, and they get to Freddie’s house without incident. It turns out his place is in Kensington, a nice flat filled with fiddly bric-a-brac and colorful fabrics, and Freddie doesn’t seem to know where anything except the vodka is.

“There _is_ beer here, right?” he asks the room at large, opening cabinets at random and slamming them closed again without really looking inside.

Pushing his hands into his pockets, Jim wanders over to a very fine grand piano placed near the window. Odd notes in untidy handwriting litter the lid and the stool. He doesn’t know much about music, but none of it looks like sheet music to him, more like random collections of letters. Maybe Freddie inherited the piano from someone and just does work there, whatever his work actually is.

“Oh, let me get that out of your way, dear,” Freddie says, appearing at his side suddenly. He grabs handfuls of papers and lifts up the stool, jamming them haphazardly inside and dropping it shut. He sits down facing Jim, leaning back on his wrists. “Do you want another beer? I think Terry’s gone to find some, he knows where we keep them.”

Jim drops himself down beside him, their arms brushing together. “I wouldn’t mind another one.”

Freddie looks up at him through his eyelashes. It’s the best look Jim has gotten at him all night—the lighting is finally good and he’s sitting still, so he can see the warm, even color of his skin, his delicate, unusual bone structure, his black hair curling loosely around his cheeks. His lips are full, his teeth peeking out, and Jim is just as charmed by the sight as he was earlier in the night. He’s very odd-looking in a way that should, probably, be ugly, but Jim finds that he’s _not_ —it’s just Freddie, and he’s strangely, uniquely beautiful. He lets his eyes follow the long, trim lines of his body, down to his small waist and narrow hips. Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Freddie bite his lower lip, leaning further back on his hands, stretching himself out for Jim’s inspection.

“Oi, Fred, either of you want one?” It’s the driver, shouting from across the room. He holds two beers up.

“Yes, darling, bring them on over,” Freddie calls back. He doesn’t straighten up, doesn’t take his gaze from Jim.

Amiably, the driver hands Jim the two beers, seemingly unfazed by what’s happening right in front of him. For a split second, Jim isn’t sure whether he should be mortified that other people are _watching_ him flirt with Freddie, but nobody spares them a second glance and the moment passes. Freddie certainly doesn’t appear to want to stop; he takes one of the bottles from Jim, letting their fingers brush as he does so. The way he tilts his head back to take a drink is practically pornographic, his fingers playing with the bottle’s neck like he’s tossing someone off.

Jim gulps down half his beer in one go. “You have a beautiful place,” he says sincerely, seizing on the first thing he can think of that isn’t _let me fuck you right now._

“Do you really think so?” Freddie asks, pleased. “I don’t spend much time here, really, not with everything else, but my babies ought to have a beautiful home.”

“Babies?”

“Oh, my cats. The little dears deserve the world, they really do.”

“You have cats?” Jim leans towards him, resting one elbow on his own knee and a hand on Freddie’s thigh.

“Mmm, two of them.” Freddie shifts under him, eyelids fluttering, and quickly takes another drink. “Tom and Jerry.”

Jim laughs. “Where are they now?”

“Probably hiding. They get _so_ jealous when I have parties. We should go find them,” Freddie says suddenly, jumping to his feet. He grabs Jim’s hand and tugs him up. “You must meet them, you’ll love them, I just know it.”

Freddie’s friends are talking loudly, scattered around the sitting room with their own drinks, and Freddie bulldozes through them, towing Jim in his wake. Only Peter really notices them leave—everyone is still quite drunk—and he gives Jim a thumb’s up, smirking.

They pass a small, immaculate kitchen, then a much less immaculate washroom, which Freddie flings open the door next to. This seems to be his bedroom—there’s a nice, large bed covered in pillows and throw blankets and a wide window with curtains sloppily drawn across it. A tabby cat, curled up in the pile of pillows, starts in surprise at their entrance, and Freddie swiftly shuts the door again.

“Darling!” he coos, letting go of Jim to swoop in on the cat. He picks it up and cradles it against his chest, kissing it on the head. “Jim, this is Tom,” he says. “Tom, this is Jim.” He kisses the side of the cat’s face, and Jim watches, amused, as the cat endures all the attention with admirable patience. “Here, you hold him,” Freddie adds generously, stepping forward to tip the tabby into Jim’s arms.

For a moment, neither Jim or Tom are sure whether the cat will allow this, and then he goes boneless, in that way cats have, hooking his paws over Jim’s shoulder to get comfortable. Jim absolutely melts, rubbing behind the small ears with his fingertips. “Hello there, little man,” he murmurs.

Meanwhile, Freddie drops onto his stomach to peer under the bed, somehow not spilling his beer all over the mandala-patterned rug. “And here’s Jerry,” he says triumphantly, thrusting one arm beneath the bedskirt. He comes up again after a second with a rather forlorn-looking orange cat, kissing this one too on his throat and head. “He’s a big baby, but he loves his mama, don’t you, Jerry?” he says with relish, twisting so he can sit up, the cat clutched to him.

Indeed, Jerry doesn’t protest this manhandling, though he does give Jim a plaintive look. Both of the cats seem remarkably docile, or perhaps just accustomed to Freddie’s exuberant affection.

“They’re very handsome boys,” Jim says, meaning it.

“Awww, Jerry, Jim thinks you’re handsome!” Freddie flutters, his face pressed into Jerry’s fur, his eyes fixed on Jim’s face. “I’m jealous, he’s never said _I’m_ handsome.”

“Freddie, you _are_ handsome,” Jim says, laughing and flushing.

Freddie hums, his gaze hot. Abruptly, he gets up, Jerry still in his grasp. “All right, my dears, go hide in the spare room,” he says, ruffling Jerry’s ears fondly. He pulls open the bedroom door, noise from the party spilling in, and tips Jerry out. He gestures, and Jim, a little confused but willing to go with it, puts Tom down in the hallway. Freddie shuts the door with a snap, locking it.

_Oh._

Smoothly, Freddie takes the beer Jim’s still holding in his hand and sets it down on his dresser, placing his own beside it. He steps into Jim’s space, warm breath washing across his face, looking between Jim’s eyes and Jim’s lips. “Tell me I’m handsome again,” he whispers. There’s something soft and vulnerable there, a tender underbelly that Jim hasn’t seen before now.

“You’re gorgeous, Freddie,” Jim whispers back, taking that lithe waist between his hands.

Freddie’s eyes flutter closed. He curls a hand around the back of Jim’s neck and leans forward, pressing their mouths together. The rest of him follows a moment later, touching Jim from knees to chest, a strip of heat up his front.

Jim holds him closer, tighter, forcing their hips together where they’re both already at least half-hard, and Freddie whines, gasping into the kiss. He loops his other arm around Jim’s shoulders, bites his lower lip, then slips his tongue into his mouth when Jim sucks in a sharp, involuntary breath.

The kiss quickly turns filthy from there, each of them trying his level best to shove his tongue down the other’s throat. Jim turns them blindly, trying to remember the room’s layout, and manages to flatten Freddie up against the door, grasping his ass firmly to drag them together. Freddie moans delightfully—he has an amazing voice, throaty and keening all at once—and hooks a knee around Jim’s hip, encouraging and unbelievably flexible and _really_ fucking hot, holy fuck.

“Fuck, you’re hot,” Jim says into his mouth, unable to resist voicing this thought.

Freddie laughs huskily, dragging his fingers along Jim’s jaw. “Darling, the feeling is _more_ than mutual.” Impossibly, he arches, pushing his erection into Jim’s hip, as though he needs evidence to demonstrate his point. “Fuck, what you do to me,” he breathes, then pulls Jim in again, sucking on his tongue like he can get him off just from that, which, honestly, he probably could.

Jim pulls away, fighting to focus his thoughts, and sucks a mark just below Freddie’s jaw while he’s at it, which isn’t terribly helpful, with the noises Freddie makes. “What do you want?” he asks, sinking his teeth lightly into his pulse point.

“Fuck!” Freddie says, banging his head back against the door. His arm is tight around Jim’s shoulders, holding him close. “Fuck, darling, let’s—come on, come on,” he says, not very clearly, and manages to pull away, grasping both of Jim’s hands. They stumble across the room until Freddie pushes him down on the bed, climbing on top of him and shoving pillows off with one arm.

Jim grabs his waist automatically to steady him and Freddie leans down to kiss him, tangling his fingers in his hair, his knees tight around Jim’s hips. He lowers himself down, rubbing them together, and Jim groans. Christ, he’s so turned on it hurts.

Carefully, he slips his hands underneath Freddie’s shirt, ready to pull back at the first sign of protest. Freddie just moans, though, shuddering beautifully when Jim strokes his skin; emboldened, he pushes the t-shirt up, exposing Freddie’s taut stomach and the jut of his hipbones. Seemingly taking that as an invitation, Freddie tugs at his own shirt, demanding, nipping at his lips, his neck.

Jim sits up, making sure Freddie stays balanced in his lap, and peels his shirt off over his head. It’s an uncoordinated affair, and getting Freddie’s off is no smoother, but the reward is instant—Freddie wraps his arms around his shoulders and kisses him, open-mouthed, rubbing their newly bare chests together. Jim touches his back, tracing the line of his spine. He might be only little, but he has a manly hairiness that Jim has always found attractive, and he spends half a thought wondering at the contradictions bundled up in the slender body in his arms before Freddie’s mouth forces all rationality away.

Operating on instinct—or on unspoken signals, maybe—Jim tips them over, rolling Freddie beneath him.

“Oh, fuck,” Freddie gasps, arching. He bats at more pillows distractedly, clearing a space, the nails of his other hand digging into Jim’s back. “Yes, darling, yes, like that.”

“You like this?” Jim pushes his legs open wider and grasps one of Freddie’s wrists, pinning it to the bedsheets by the spill of his hair. “You like it like this?”

Freddie whines loudly. “ _Fuck_ , yes, darling!”

“Okay,” Jim says. He’s not surprised, really, but Freddie’s strong reaction has sent a jolt of arousal through him regardless. “I can make that happen.” He squeezes the wrist in his grip for emphasis and bites at Freddie’s throat, leaving more marks, unable to help himself.

Moaning, Freddie tilts his head, giving Jim more access. “ _Please_.”

Jim releases his arm, dropping his hands to Freddie’s pants, fighting with the button and zip to get them open. They’re tight-fitting and make his legs and ass look amazing, but it’s not the easiest thing in the world to get a hand in to palm Freddie’s dick. Freddie jolts and swears when he manages it, bucking into his grip.

“Fuck, Jim! Oh, fuck, your hands are so big, Christ, _yes_.” He interrupts himself with a high-pitched whine, then his own hands fall to Jim’s belt, fumbling. “Let me touch you, please, fuck, I can’t stand it.”

Laughing into his throat, Jim works himself up onto his knees to make it easier for him, taking the time to yank Freddie’s jeans further down his hips while he’s at it. Freddie wrestles Jim’s pants open mainly through brute force, cursing until he gets his way, and immediately slides one long, clever hand into his underwear, finding out his cock and stroking him. Jim thrusts into his palm, groaning.

“Darling, your cock is _delicious_ ,” Freddie says, pulling his underwear away so he can get his eyes on it. He actually licks his lips, gaze fiery and intent, and Jim nearly comes on the spot.

“If you keep that up, this won’t last long,” he pants.

“Then _hurry up_.” Reluctantly, Freddie takes his hand from Jim’s cock and shoves his own pants down, working them off his long legs. “I want you to _fuck me_ with that.”

“We need—”

“Bedside table,” Freddie replies, tossing his jeans aside carelessly.

There are two bedside tables, both ornate and covered with all sorts of clutter, so Jim just picks one and leans over to yank open the top drawer. He’s lucky and spots the tub of Vaseline at once, pulling it out and tossing it to the bed, slamming the drawer shut again.

Freddie grabs it from beside him and gets rid of the lid, which goes… somewhere, shoving the tub at Jim. “You do it,” he says, demandingly.

“All right,” Jim says, obligingly taking the stuff and dipping two fingers in. He actually likes this part, likes taking the time to pull his partner apart and make him want it just as badly. And then there are the ones like Freddie, who need it—Jim can tell from the way he settles back, widening his legs, face expectant—and that’s a whole different level of experience, heady and almost addictive.

He reaches down between Freddie’s thighs, rubbing at him with slick fingertips, and when he tips his head back, moaning, covering his mouth with one hand, Jim slips one finger into him. He’s tight but there’s no resistance; he’s used to this, his hips stirring, seeking. Jim pumps his finger in and out, rubbing with the pad.

“Oh, darling,” Freddie whines through his fingers, “Jim, darling, more, give me more, _please_.”

“I don’t want to hurt you.”

“You _won’t_. Please, darling, I need more!”

Jim wants to argue but can’t—he’s so turned on that it’s actually painful and Freddie’s already leaking across his stomach, cock an angry red. Drawing this out just means they won’t get to fuck. “You have to _tell_ me if it hurts, Freddie,” he says instead, pulling his hand back and sliding a second finger in with the first.

Freddie yields easily and doesn’t protest, panting and moaning loudly into his palm. Jim honestly isn’t sure why he has his hand up over his face—it’s not like it’s muffling him any, he’s _loud_ , which is going to Jim’s cock in the worst fucking way—and finally reaches up to pull it away.

“Come on, let me hear you,” he says.

Freddie squirms on his fingers, his wrist twisting in Jim’s grip. “Mm, my teeth,” he mumbles, barely audible, then jerks and tightens and squeals when Jim brushes the little knot inside him. “ _Ah, fuck!_ Fuck, Jim, fuck, right there!”

“Yeah?” Jim kisses his jaw, his slack, gasping mouth. He rubs his prostate just to hear Freddie moan again. “You like that?”

“ _Jim!_ ” Freddie’s thighs flex and his back arches, his nails digging into Jim’s back. “Please, please,” he says desperately. “Please fuck me, _now_ , Jim, _right now_ , darling!”

“I don’t—”

“You _won’t_ hurt me, _fuck_ , Jim, just fucking _fuck_ me already!” Freddie explodes. He yanks Jim’s fingers out of himself, hissing, and slips his hand around his cock. “Come _on_ , I _need_ it, I need _you_.”

“ _Fuck_ , Freddie,” Jim moans, jerking into his clever hand. “God, you just get whatever you want, don’t you?” He pulls Freddie’s hand off and kicks his jeans and underwear away before slicking up with Vaseline.

“Yes, just give it to me, come on,” Freddie whines. Jim grabs his tiny waist and flips him over, drags him onto his hands and knees, breathing hard. Helpfully, Freddie spreads his legs and arches his back, tossing his head. For a moment, their eyes meet over his shoulder, Jim positioning himself behind him, and then Freddie’s head drops and he keens when Jim pushes himself inside.

Jim groans, Freddie’s tight, wet heat sucking him in. It’s so easy to sink down fully, pushing himself against Freddie’s firm ass, and he grips his narrow hips hard, fighting to steady himself. “Fuck,” he says hoarsely, burying his face between Freddie’s sharp shoulder blades. “ _Fuck_ , you feel so good.”

“You’re so big, darling,” Freddie whispers. He pushes back on Jim’s cock, tightening and relaxing in pulses, and it’s unbelievably hot to see him stretched so wide around Jim, taking him so well, so easily.

“ _God_.” Jim can’t help rocking his hips, and Freddie responds so positively that he does it again, thrusting gently. He wants to go harder, faster, but he’s afraid he’ll come instantly, and he’s enjoying the noises Freddie makes, lovely, high-pitched moans jolted out of him each time Jim fucks back inside.

“Ah—ah—fuck—Jim—ohgod—”

“Yeah, that’s it, Freddie, let me hear you—”

“Jim, _Christ_ , Jim—please, please—harder—harder, fuck me _harder_ —”

Jim obliges, snapping his hips forward roughly, and Freddie cries out, reaching one hand forward to grip the headboard. He does it again, dragging Freddie into the thrust, and Freddie _screams_ , knuckles white.

“ _Jim!_ There! _Yes_ , there—ah—yes—fuck—yes—!”

“Fuck, your voice,” Jim groans, fucking him in earnest now, the bed creaking under them, Freddie wailing, almost singing. “Fucking hell, the voice on you, Freddie—”

“Ohmygod, don’t stop, don’tstopdon’tstop _don’tstop_ —”

He’s getting tighter inside, arching his spine at the perfect angle, sweat gathering at the small of his back, and Jim knows without having to ask that he’s close. His own orgasm gathers hot and urgent in his balls, spurred on by Freddie’s cries, the sight of his hands almost encircling that small waist. _Fuck_ , he’s so hot, a perfect vise around Jim’s dick, he’s going to come any second—

Quickly, he slips one hand around Freddie’s front, wrapping it around his cock. He strokes him once, twice, and Freddie comes all over the bed with a howl, clenching around Jim as he slams into him, grunting, and then Jim’s coming too, pressing as deeply as he can, pulling Freddie into him so hard that he knows, when he drifts back to himself, that he’s left bruises.

They stay like that for a moment, both of them breathing hard. Freddie’s hand slips from the headboard and he rests his head on his forearms. Jim runs his palms along his sides until he can muster enough energy to pull out. He drops onto his back on the other side of the bed.

Immediately, Freddie squirms into his side, sweaty and clinging. Without a word, he rests his head on Jim’s shoulder, throws one arm over his chest, a leg over his hips. Only then does he seem to relax, his breath evening out.

Jim runs a hand through his thick hair, pressing a kiss to the top of his head. “Fuck, that was intense,” he says.

If anything, Freddie holds tighter. “Mm, yes, darling, you were wonderful,” he says. He sounds a little sleepy, but not like he’s about to drop off immediately.

“Glad I could be of service,” Jim laughs, the afterglow, as always, turning everything cheery.

Freddie doesn’t respond for a moment. His fingers trace Jim’s ribs idly, aimlessly, with no real pattern. “I’m glad you bought me a drink,” he says suddenly.

“I’m glad you asked again.”

He feels Freddie smile against his shoulder. “I’m very persistent. It’s part of my charm. Or one of my worst features, I suppose, depends on who you ask.” Lifting off of Jim slightly, he props his head on his free hand, elbow braced on the mattress, looking down at him. His hair is a wild fluff around his face, and Jim brushes his fingers through it again, just because he can. “You know, I wanted you the first time I saw you.”

“Oh, really?” Jim asks, raising an eyebrow and grinning. He rests a hand on Freddie’s ass, squeezing playfully.

Freddie sucks in a quick breath. “Of course. You’re very sexy, you know.” He leans down to nip at Jim’s jaw, kiss him briefly. “Exactly my type.”

Freddie _isn’t_ Jim’s type, but he can honestly say, “ _You’re_ very sexy too. I’m glad I met you, Freddie.”

There might be a flush on Freddie’s high cheekbones, but he kisses Jim again and if it was there, it’s gone by the time he pulls back. “I feel as if I know you, but I don’t really, do I?” He’s smiling. His enormous overbite is still adorable. “What do you do?”

“I’m a hairdresser,” Jim tells him, running his palm up and down the long line of his spine. “I work at the Savoy. It’s not that exciting, really. What about you?”

“I’m a singer,” Freddie says. His arm must be tired, because he folds both of them across Jim’s chest and drops his chin on top of his hands.

Now the piano in the front room makes sense. “You must do all right, to afford a place like this,” Jim says.

Freddie laughs. “Yeah, we do all right.” His face goes soft suddenly, sweet and almost childlike. “We can get under the sheets,” he says, hesitantly. “You can stay for a while if you want.”

Jim kisses him, cradling his head in one hand. Freddie’s perfect, moving up to give him a better angle, moaning quietly into his mouth. “Yeah, okay,” he murmurs against Freddie’s lips. “I can do that.” The alcohol and the all-nighter are catching up with him.

Like he can’t help himself, Freddie kisses him again, deeply, fiercely, then pulls back to sit up. They pull the covers back together, laughing at each other, and Freddie flings more pillows to the ground, apparently uncaring of where they end up. He flops down theatrically, yanking the sheets up to his shoulders, and Jim is actually sad to see that body hidden away.

He slides behind Freddie, carefully putting an arm around his waist and resting his head on the same pillow. He can’t help it, he likes to cuddle his partners. “Is this okay?” he checks.

Freddie’s silent for a long moment, apparently not even breathing, and then he whispers, “Yes, it’s okay.” His fingers brush Jim’s forearm and he curls back into him, his muscles going loose and relaxed. “Thank you,” he whispers, “Jim.”

Jim kisses the back of his neck. “Go to sleep, Freddie.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After some internal agonizing, Freddie invites Jim to a party that he had, until just recently, forgotten he'd scheduled. Paul is unfiltered, 100% pure Asshole. Phoebe is not being paid enough for this.
> 
> (Part 1 of 2)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Generalized warnings for Paul Prenter being an emotionally abusive asshole.
> 
> Phoebe, on the other hand, needs no warnings in the first place, because he is a sweet lil' marshmallow.

It’s been two and a half weeks, and Freddie is no closer to forgetting about Jim than he was with the Irishman fucking him senseless in his bed.

He stares at a small piece of paper in his hand, like just looking at the string of numbers will miraculously produce some solution. At the last, in possibly the most monumental fuckup in his continued string of fuckups, Freddie had given Jim his phone number before he left, scrawled on a torn piece of notebook paper. Amiably, Jim had returned the favor. And here Freddie is, staring at Jim’s number in between picking the phone up and slamming it back down.

Christ, he is such a girl.

Disgusted with himself, Freddie flings the scrap of paper into a kitchen drawer, on top of the cutlery, and storms out. He needs to get fucking laid. He can’t spend this much time obsessing over one man’s dick, it’s unhealthy, not to mention fucking stupid when there are so many others out there to ride.

So what if Jim held him afterwards? So what if he woke up in the early afternoon with Jim still tangled around him? So _what_ if for a moment he was as happy as he’s ever—

“Fuck, Freddie, focus,” Paul says, tugging at his hair, bringing him back to reality with a jolt. Arousal shoots through him when Paul does it again, forcing Freddie to look at him from where he’s on his knees with Paul’s cock in his mouth. It’s quite late and the only light in the room comes from the streetlamps outside, painting Paul’s face warm orange and shadowy black. “You want to make this good for me, don’t you, baby?” he says more gently, thumbs stroking Freddie’s cheekbones.

And Freddie _does_. Paul is usually kind enough to give it to him when he needs it, and Freddie wants to repay him for everything he’s done, the way Paul touches him and looks at him like he’s actually attractive, all the nights Paul has comforted him when he panics or cries. He pushes Jim resolutely from his mind and bends to his task with renewed vigor, moaning around Paul’s delightful cock.

He _loves_ doing this, loves the weight of cock on his tongue, the heat of it, the taste as it leaks. He licks up the shaft, pumps the base with his hand, deepthroats it. He’s _good_ at this, he knows he is, even on his worst days, though it helps that right now he’s drunk and a little high and has no gag reflex. Paul groans, pulling his hair.

“You’re so good at this, Freddie,” he says huskily. “ _Fuck_ , the mouth on you.” Curling his hands around the back of Freddie’s head, he pushes him down further onto his cock, and Freddie goes slack for it, aching to hear more. Paul just knows, in that way he has, and strokes his face with his fingertips. “Yeah, baby, like that. You look so good like this, Freddie, you were made for sucking cock. You want me to fuck your mouth? Huh, Fred?”

Freddie whines and taps Paul’s hip, trying to indicate that Paul should let him go, but Paul doesn’t understand. It’s true that Freddie doesn’t often ask to stop, so Paul just follows through, jacking his hips so hard that tears spring, unbidden, into Freddie’s eyes. There’s so much pressure in his throat it actually hurts, but the drugs and Paul’s touch smooth it away, and in any case the pain feeds the terrible knot of pleasure deep in his gut. He’s always liked a twist of bitter in his drink, as it were, an _edge_ to set his heart racing and his nerves alight.

But he doesn’t want Paul in his throat—doesn’t want to finish this way, anyway, not when he could have something better. Paul won’t stop, though, driving forcefully into his mouth, and Freddie has to lean away, as hard as Paul is pulling him in, harder, until he feels the tug on his scalp and he finally manages to pull off. He presses a kiss to the tip of Paul’s cock while he catches his breath. “I want you to fuck me,” he whispers hoarsely, in answer to Paul’s questioning eyebrow. “Please, Paul, I need you.”

“Oh, you do, do you?” Paul pulls Freddie’s head to one side, studying his face. Freddie bites his lip and tries to look as seductive as possible. “You’re awfully demanding for someone who keeps leaving me behind when he goes out, Freddie.”

“Darling, you’ve been so _busy_ —”

“Helping _you_ out, Freddie. Aren’t you grateful?”

“I _am_ darling, I’m _so_ grateful,” Freddie says earnestly. “Please, let me show you how grateful I am.”

“It just hurts, Freddie,” Paul says, soft. He touches Freddie’s lower lip with his thumb. “All I want is to be appreciated every once in a while.”

Freddie’s eyes flick downward, guiltily. He pushes against Paul’s hold, craning his neck to kiss him. “Please, darling, let me make it up to you.”

In the end, Paul does let him, holding his hips as Freddie bounces on his dick, thighs burning and straining. He prefers to lay down and let the other guy do most of the work, but Paul makes no effort to put him on his back and Freddie doesn’t ask him to, though he knows he’ll ache like a bitch later. Paul’s hands knead his ass, hot gaze roaming all over him, and it makes Freddie feel good. He feels like a god. He feels like Freddie Mercury.

Paul is gentle with him afterwards, tells him he did so well, he’s so pleased with him, and Freddie relaxes into the sheets, boneless with relief. Jim hasn’t ruined him—he’s still himself. Paul still wants him. Surely he can forget the whole thing now.

He dozes off, and when he wakes up, he’s convinced for half a second that Jim is there, tucked in bed behind him. Jim is not there. Paul isn’t even there. He’s alone.

It’s actually Phoebe who brings the whole thing to the next stage. Freddie’s in the kitchen, hungover and trying not to dwell on the ache in his hips or his jaw or his chest, slumped on the table with the first tea of the day in his hands, when Phoebe, who’s making midday breakfast, suddenly says, “Hey, what’s this?”

Freddie looks up, blinking blearily. To his horror, Phoebe has the cutlery drawer open and the little scrap of paper in his hand.

“Fuck!” he blurts out without thinking. “Oh, shit, darling, that’s nothing, really, I meant to throw that away.”

Phoebe just gives him a look, because Freddie is a fuckup and nobody is buying anything he says. “You got someone’s number and _kept_ it?” he says incredulously, as well he might. “Who is he? Come on, Fred, dish.”

Groaning, Freddie drops his head to the table. “Christ, I fucked up,” he whines.

“Is it that Irish guy you’re obsessed with?” Phoebe persists. “I heard you managed to pick him up at Heaven, well _done_. How was it? You’ve been so quiet about the whole thing.” Phoebe doesn’t pry—he isn’t now, either—he has this kind way of asking questions that lets Freddie know he doesn’t have to answer, but Phoebe is ready to listen if he does want to talk. It’s all so… motherly, if Freddie had to put a word to it. He’s always been helpless to motherly love and affection, he turns to gelatin in seconds flat when faced with Phoebe like this.

It all spills from him in a great torrent, as though a flood could wash away his mistakes. His sins. His inclinations, branded in bone and blood. “Darling, he was actually _gorgeous_. Absolutely perfect. He had a glorious dick, too, a fucking magic dick.” Freddie pulls at his own hair, miserable and conflicted all over again. “He held me, after,” he mumbles.

The chair opposite scrapes as Phoebe pulls it back, sits down. “What’s this guy’s name?” he asks, gently removing Freddie’s fingers from his tangled curls and replacing them with his own, rubbing his scalp. He’s so fucking nice. Freddie is nearly in tears.

“Jim. I gave him my number first,” he admits in a rush.

“You need to call him, then,” Phoebe says calmly. “Invite him tonight.”

Freddie peers up at him, frowning. “What’s tonight?”

“You’re having a dinner, remember?”

“Oh, fuck!” He definitely didn’t remember anything about a dinner until just this second. “No, wait, forget that, I can’t invite Jim! I’m trying to forget about him!”

“And that’s working so well?”

“Fuck you, you yourself said I was obsessed!”

Unphased, Phoebe replies, “Yes, but your obsessions never just go away, Fred, we both know that. You have to see him again.”

“I do not!”

“Well, no, I guess you don’t _have_ to do anything. But since when has Freddie Mercury been afraid of talking to someone he wants to sleep with?”

Freddie gapes at him. “I’m not _afraid!_ ”

“If you say so,” Phoebe says agreeably. He gets up and returns to the stove. “Do you still want eggs?”

“No, I’m not fucking hungry anymore.” Freddie takes his tea and gracefully bangs out of the room to go hammer on the piano for a few hours.

“Your visitors will be here at seven,” Phoebe calls after him.

Fuming, Freddie improvises half-hours of dramatic, thundering music at a time, recklessly changing keys and time signatures but maintaining the same volume (loud). He wants the notes to fill his mind, wipe it clean of misery and indecision. Not that he deserves it—not that he deserves any of this—not Paul’s kind words, not Jim’s comforting embrace, none of it. He can never have any of that, not really. Not for keeps.

But then why not _enjoy it?_ Just for now? As long as Jim is willing to fuck him and hold him, as long as that magic is there, why can’t he enjoy it? Fuck it. He’s Freddie fucking Mercury. He can find another hit when this one goes sour, and another one after that. What’s wrong with that, if he can’t expect anything else? Enjoy the ride while it’s here and worry about the pain later.

Besides, it had felt so _nice_ when Jim held him, almost like this is something sweet and real, just like what he had with Mary, before he ruined that by being weak, by being himself. But maybe Jim won’t mind the real him. Can’t it all just somehow—impossibly—work out?

Unwillingly, he remembers his mother’s suspicious, hard-eyed stare, and his stomach clenches and swoops.

No, it can’t work out. It would kill his parents to know for sure, to say it out loud instead of talking around it like his mother does sometimes. To _know_ his weakness to his inclinations, to _know_ that he is godless and damned—he can’t bear to imagine it.

He can’t have a relationship with a man like he did with Mary, it doesn’t work like that. And anyway, it’s a miracle Mary put up with him for as long as she did—doubtless Jim will get sick of his oddities soon, and then he’ll leave.

If he doesn’t, Freddie will find some way to kill this too. He always does.

Would it be so awful to let it happen, though? Enjoy it while it lasts, let Jim hold him, relish the fucks and savor the sweetness and just… pretend? Pretend that it’s real? (Whatever _real_ even means?)

He can take it, when it’s over. He’s Freddie fucking Mercury, he can take anything the world dishes out and come back for more. He can fucking _have this_ , for a little while, if he wants to.

(Fuck the world, fuck the future, if I want this I can _fucking_ take it—)

(You’ll cry when it comes to nothing, you silly little tart, it always comes to nothing and you always cry, how can you even call yourself a man—)

(But I _want_ this, it feels so—so… gentle, and kind—)

(That’s not what _you_ want. You want it rough and hard and anonymous, slut. You’ll destroy the imitation relationship of two imitation men the moment he realizes what you are.)

(He won’t, he _won’t_ , he’s not like that.)

(But you are, darling, and you know it.)

(Jim isn’t like me, but—if I’m around him enough, maybe I can be unlike me too? Maybe Jim could make me better—it could happen—I don’t know if even Papa could dislike Jim, he’s so—)

No. Mustn’t go there.

He’s still left, at the end of it all, with a mess of disordered thoughts—and Jim, at the center. If Jim sat beside him just then, Freddie is absurdly sure that his worries would turn to dust. Nothing in him can stay frightened or wrapped in knots if Jim holds him close; he can just breathe, exist, drift on a tide of sensations without touching any of them too deeply.

It’s peace, what Jim offers, and Freddie would have scoffed at such a gift until he got a demonstration. Now he craves it, longs for it, aches for _Jim_ —he’s never been addicted, not to cigarettes and not to drink or coke or anything else he’s tried, but the quiet Jim brings with him makes his mouth water. He can’t stay away, not when he could have more.

Decision made, he leaves off the piano with a discordant clang, striding back into the kitchen. Phoebe is still there—or there again, he supposes—reading a newspaper and drinking tea.

“Feeling any better?” he asks.

“I’m perfectly all right, darling,” Freddie says grandly. He notices that Phoebe has kindly left the paper with Jim’s number on it by the phone, but elects not to mention it. He picks up the receiver and dials the number, swiveling the note with one finger. “I’m inviting Jim,” he tells Phoebe as it rings. “Make sure there are enough place settings.”

“Of course, Melina.” He can hear the smile in Phoebe’s voice. Freddie takes it back, Phoebe is totally a bitch.

The phone’s picked up at the other end and an older lady says, “Hello?”

“Hello?” Freddie repeats, startled. “Ah, yes, hello, dear. Is Jim there?”

“Jim? Yes, I suppose you would want to talk to Jim,” the woman sighs. “I’ll go get him.” He hears her set the phone down on a table, then silence.

Freddie wishes Phoebe weren’t here, listening to him, but he forgets about trivial little things like that the instant the phone is picked up again and Jim says, “Hello?” Just his voice sends a fission of arousal through him.

“Guess who it is?” Freddie purrs.

There’s a pause. “Freddie?”

“Yes, of course, darling! Listen, Jim, you must come over,” Freddie insists. “I’m having a dinner party and you have to be here.”

“Freddie, I have food on! I can’t just leave it.”

“Of course you can leave it, just turn the burner off!”

“It’s half-cooked, you do realize.” Jim sounds like he’s fighting not to be amused.

“Then there will definitely be better food at my place. And it’s more fun, I promise. Please, darling, do say you’ll come.”

“All right, all right,” Jim agrees, laughing. “I’ll be there. What time does it start?”

“Oh, I don’t know, soon,” Freddie says carelessly. “Just come straight over, dear, you’ll be on time. Oh shit, do you remember my address?”

“I do, actually. It’ll probably take me at least forty minutes to get there, though, are you sure that’s okay?”

“We’ll wait for you. I do have alcohol.”

Jim laughs again. “Right, of course. Then I’ll see you soon.”

“Yes, see you soon.” He hears the click and the dial tone, and puts the receiver back down, smiling to himself. His chest is opening up around a bubble. He’s light, floating on air, too pleased with the world to notice (or care) if Phoebe has a smug _I-told-you-so_ expression pointed in his direction.

How the food and the guests get there, he has no idea. Freddie’s locked up in his room trying on just about every piece of clothing he owns, trying to find the perfect outfit. After he finally settles on a pair of pale blue skinny jeans and one of his favorite Superman t-shirts, there’s the issue of what jewelry to pair with it; he has to throw the contents of his Japanese boxes everywhere to root out a simple chain necklace, a few small-ish rings, and his fork bracelet. He’s adjusting the last around his wrist, posing in front of the mirror inside the closet door, when someone knocks on the door.

“Freddie?” Paul calls. “All your guests are here, Freddie. You should come out and say hello, we’ve come all this way.”

Freddie rips the door open. “Is Jim here?” he asks, fluffing his hair with one hand. “Has he got here yet?”

Paul frowns. “Who’s Jim?”

“Big, sexy Irish guy,” Freddie says impatiently. “You’d have noticed.” He starts jamming necklaces and rings back into boxes and kicking rejected shirts under the bed.

“Well, I don’t think this _Jim_ is here,” Paul says slowly. “But everyone else is. They’re waiting for you out in the sitting room.”

“Fuck, Christ, I’m coming.” Freddie throws handfuls of clothes in the closet and slams the door.

Suddenly, Paul is behind him, hands on his hips. “You look lovely tonight, Freddie,” he murmurs in his ear. He kisses his neck, lingering.

Freddie shrugs him off, stepping away. He doesn’t want Paul’s hands, Paul’s mouth, not tonight. “Thank you, dear, I try my best.” He smiles, blows him a dismissive kiss, and breezes out the door, sauntering into the main room, like Paul wanted. Surely that will be good enough. “Hello, darlings!” he calls to the flat at large. “The party can start now, I’m here!”

He honestly doesn’t remember inviting any of these people, either, but there are four of them other than Phoebe and Paul, all men he vaguely knows from the clubs. They’re here for the alcohol, for the food that Phoebe got from somewhere—or maybe cooked himself, Freddie has no idea, he’s a fucking disaster in the kitchen but Phoebe is pretty good at whipping things up—and for the ability to say that they’ve been to a dinner party thrown by Freddie fucking Mercury. For a split second, he feels like an anchorite, walled up and entirely isolated from life passing around him, screaming into a void.

Phoebe appears at his side and pushes a vodka tonic into his hand, breaking the moment. “Here you are,” he says.

“Ooh, thank you, darling.” Freddie downs half the glass in one gulp. “So what were you talking about before I came to brighten the room?”

Nothing much, it transpires, but within five minutes it doesn’t matter—the bell rings and Freddie’s whole stomach leaps up into his throat. Phoebe makes a move to go answer it and Freddie blurts out, “No, no, wait, I’ve got it!” He shoves his glass into Phoebe’s hand before dashing away, clattering down the stairs to open the front door on the ground floor. Alone, not buzzing Jim in, desperate, in that moment, for it to be just the two of them.

On the other side of the door, Jim is absolutely gorgeous in a vest and jeans, muscled arms on display. He’s a wet dream come to life. Freddie loses his breath and smiles without realizing it.

“Hey,” Jim says, returning the smile. _God_ , his expression is so warm, Freddie wants to slide into him like a hot bath, soak up the comfort he can just _feel_ radiating from him. “Hope you haven’t been waiting long.”

“No, not at all, darling,” Freddie says breathlessly. He reaches out to take Jim’s wrist, tugging him into the entryway and swinging the front door shut behind him. He glances over his shoulder; there’s no one on the staircase, none of his neighbors peeking out of their doors, and he gives in to temptation and flings his arms around Jim, tucking himself close.

Jim jerks slightly, perhaps in surprise at Freddie’s boldness, though after a moment he does return the embrace, burly arms going around Freddie’s back and squeezing. Their hearts beat together.

Freddie’s buzzing with it when he pulls back, like he just took a hit of coke, but it’s only Jim—just Jim. “Come on, then,” he says, beckoning him up the stairs. “I’m so glad you could make it, dear, I barely remember half the people I invited to this fucking thing—”

Laughing in disbelief, Jim says, “Then why are they _here?_ ”

“God fucking knows,” Freddie says. “I must have been totally plastered. Right, well, chin up, that sort of thing—a few of them I _do_ know, and of course there’s you, darling—well, here we are!” He flings open the door to his flat grandly, even though Jim’s already seen the place, and exclaims, “Right, we’re all present, we can eat now!”

They don’t, though, not immediately. There are introductions to be made first, which Freddie lets Jim figure out on his own, partly because he really knows fuck-all about most of these people but mostly because Paul snags him and manages to pull him aside to the window.

“Freddie, who _is_ this guy?” he asks. “I’ve never even seen him out on the scene, you can’t just invite unknowns—”

“I _told_ you, he’s Jim.” Freddie looks around for his drink before remembering that he gave it to Phoebe before rushing off. Phoebe doesn’t seem to have it anymore, but he is talking to Jim, and the two of them are laughing and getting on quite well. “You need to fuck off, Paul,” he hisses, fighting to keep his voice low. “You _know_ we’re not exclusive, I’m not going to fucking deal with your jealous—”

“I’m _not_ jealous. I’m just worried about you, Freddie. I don’t want you getting hurt, not again.” Paul’s face is incredibly gentle, his fingertips a barely-there brush on the inside of Freddie’s wrist. “Remember what happened with David?”

Freddie pulls his arm away. “This _isn’t_ the same thing,” he insists. “I’m a grown fucking man, Paul, leave me the fuck alone to act like it.”

“Freddie—”

Freddie leaves him without another word. He knows himself too well—if he stays any longer he’ll get frustrated, he’ll start to shout, he’ll cry, he’ll cause a scene. He makes a beeline for Jim and Phoebe, his rocks in this tempest-tossed sea; he could cling to either of them, he really could, beg Phoebe for his hands in his hair or Jim for his arms around him.

“ _There_ you are!” Phoebe says loudly, excitement highlighting his normally unflappable voice. “Freddie, when you said _Jim_ was coming, you didn’t tell me he was _Jim Hutton!_ ”

“What?” Freddie says. Jim _Hutton?_

“We used to work together, before I got in with the ballet!”

“Surprised to find Peter here, of all places,” Jim says, smiling. Freddie would feel jealous that Jim looks so warm toward someone else, but it’s Phoebe, and that somehow seems unjust. Phoebe’s like a kitten, compulsively loveable, he can’t help himself.

“I help Fred keep track of things, these days. It’s a full-time gig—no offense meant, Freddie.”

“God, no, darling, I know I’m a horror.”

Jim casts an amused glance Freddie’s way. “What do you have to keep track of, anyway?”

Freddie gets that odd feeling again—the same one from their last time together, when Jim innocently asked what he did for a living—the one that says that maybe Jim has _no clue_ who he is. He should be offended, with anyone else he’d fly into a rage, but somehow it only makes him want to impress Jim more, this idea that to Jim he’s not Freddie fucking Mercury, but just… Freddie. Not Freddie Mercury, extravagant rock star, but just Freddie, some guy he met at a club—and Jim went home with him _anyway_ , and told him he was handsome, and held him like he mattered.

“I can’t even cook for myself, dear, there’s plenty to keep track of,” he ends up saying.

Phoebe, however, is giving Jim a slightly odd look. “Freddie and his band got back recently from playing a tour of Europe and America,” he says. “They’re recording another album now.”

“You’ve played _America?_ ” Jim sounds impressed. He turns to Freddie, eyebrows raised like he’s been holding out on him. “I’ve always wanted to go. You didn’t say you had such a big following.”

“They released a number-one single a couple of years ago,” Phoebe reports, and Freddie squirms, flushing—it’s weird, hearing these things about himself, told to someone who, it’s clear now, really _doesn’t_ know.

“What? Where?”

“ _Here!_ ”

“In the _UK?_ ” Jim says, stunned. “What’s your band?”

“They’re not _my_ band,” Freddie mumbles, hugely embarrassed. He hasn’t felt like this since he became Freddie Mercury and left shy, awkward Farrokh Bulsara behind completely. “I sing for Queen.”

There’s a pause, and now _Jim_ seems embarrassed. “I’m sorry,” he says. “I don’t think I know Queen.”

“Oh, it’s fine, darling, it’s not a big deal at all,” Freddie says quickly, touching Jim’s forearm like an apology. The sensation of skin-on-skin grounds him, helps him feel less like a gawky teenager. “I’m quite boring, honestly,” he adds with a self-conscious smile. “I’d rather hear more about you.”

Jim’s smile is equal parts relieved and nervous. “I don’t know about that. I’m very boring indeed.”

“Nonsense, I’m sure that’s not true.” Freddie takes his hand because he can’t help himself; he wants to tuck himself under Jim’s arm, nice and safe, but manages to hold himself back through sheer fucking willpower. “Phoebe, get me another drink—and Jim probably wants a beer, I suppose you’d know just as well which sort. Then I think we should eat, yeah? I’m sure the food is going cold.”

Phoebe agrees and wanders into the kitchen, leaving Freddie and Jim more or less alone.

“I’m sorry I didn’t know you were a famous musician,” Jim says.

Freddie flaps his free hand dismissively. “Really, darling, it’s nothing. Honestly,” he confides, leaning in closer, relishing the scent of Jim’s cologne on his neck, “it’s almost refreshing after so many people fucking tripping over themselves.”

“So you enjoy the quiet life?” Jim asks, his expression stating quite clearly that he doesn’t believe this for a second.

“Hardly! No, I was born to be a star and it’s a good deal of fun, most of the time.” He shrugs, gives in to hopeless longing and steps close to Jim’s side. “I suppose it will get to anyone.”

At this point, Phoebe returns, a bottle in one hand and a glass of vodka tonic in the other. “They’re probably waiting for you to sit, Fred,” he says dryly, handing them over.

“Shit! You’re probably right.” Freddie downs some alcohol, wincing. He lowers his voice conspiratorially, so only Jim and Phoebe can (theoretically) hear him. “I think I prefer larger parties. At least then the guests take some fucking initiative.”

“Don’t exaggerate. You love being the center of attention,” Phoebe observes, with what sounds like typical mildness from a great distance, if you’re squinting. Every so often he’s a sassy bitch. Freddie really shouldn’t put up with him, but then there are all the times when Phoebe’s the only person in the room with any fucking sense in his head, Freddie included—Freddie _especially_ included.

“Fuck you,” Freddie retorts because he can’t think of anything better, something that is readily apparent to everyone within earshot. “Oh, fine, _whatever_ , dear, let’s get the show on the road. Come on, Jim,” he adds, tugging insistently on Jim’s hand until the man follows him, an endearing look of near-dread on his face. He’s so obviously out of his depth. Freddie wants to ditch the dinner immediately and drag Jim back to his room, put him back in his element: fucking Freddie through the mattress. Maybe he could eat dessert off of Jim’s chest afterwards. _Oh_ , isn’t that a thought. He’s actually hungry just considering it.

Quickly, he shoves Jim into a chair at the dining table before he can change his mind, dropping into the spot next to him. He’s so distracted that he doesn’t notice he’s left the head of the table open at first.

Paul takes the seat almost immediately, leaning into Freddie’s space to introduce himself to Jim. “Someone else from the Emerald Isle, I see,” he says, feigning politeness almost as badly as Freddie had faked a comeback to Phoebe not thirty seconds earlier. “I’m Paul, Freddie’s other personal assistant.”

“Jim,” Jim says. Apparently he’s the only civil man left in the fucking room; Freddie has a feeling that he’s not a particularly good liar, so if he’s pretending, he deserves an _award_. “You from around Belfast, then, Paul?”

“Never really shook the accent, obviously. You sound like you’re from the Republic.”

“I am,” Jim replies, not elaborating any further.

“How long have you been in London, then?” Paul asks. He props his chin on his hand and eyes Jim up and down, like he’s taking the size of his clothes and isn’t impressed with what he sees. “I haven’t really seen you out on the scene before.”

“I’ve been here long enough,” Jim says shortly, and none of Paul’s further stratagems (not that they’re particularly subtle) get anything more from him.

Freddie is horribly uncomfortable, as though his skin doesn’t fit properly. He normally quite likes setting potential suitors up against each other and sitting back to watch the fireworks—he has all the power, in those moments, as men fight just for the chance to take him to bed, _him_ , like this fever dream of being an attractive rock star is actually true—but this is different. He’s a scrap dogs fight over, or a scrap that _Paul_ fights over, anyway. Jim isn’t engaging much. And Freddie didn’t _ask_ for this, he doesn’t even want Paul here, not really. Not right now. He doesn’t want _any_ of them here right now except Jim.

Mercifully, Phoebe arrives with plates of salad, placing them neatly on the table. While Jim is distracted picking out the right fork, Paul’s hand slides onto Freddie’s thigh, and Freddie kicks him, glaring. Paul withdraws, surly; deliberate, Freddie turns to Jim, blocking Paul with his shoulder, and asks if he likes the dressing.

Freddie spends the rest of the meal ignoring everyone else at the table almost entirely, flirting with Jim to the exclusion of eating. He picks at his food a few times, when Jim or Phoebe remind him that it’s there, but he’s not that hungry and it’s a better use of his time to natter Jim’s ear off. He’s had several more vodka tonics and Jim had seemed interested in America so he ends up telling the wildest tour stories he can think of, everything from a particularly insane post-concert party that ended with Deacy so blackout drunk he woke up the next morning convinced they were still in London to their limo getting stuck in the snow in some godforsaken Midwestern state, a trauma capped by all four of them having to get out and push.

“And I _broke_ a _nail_ ,” Freddie rants, caught up in the horrible memory. “ _And_ my shoes were ruined! For fuck’s sake, this is why I have money, so I can pay _other_ people to push cars out of snow piles. I don’t want to do it myself!”

Jim smiles warmly, dinner forgotten. He’s placed his fork down somewhere in all this and folded his hands on the table. “Was the concert worth it?”

“Of course it was, darling! We weren’t going to let our fans down, not for that.” Mollified at the thought of his own determination, Freddie settles back in his chair, drink cradled in one hand. “There are a lot of blood, sweat, and tears, but I do think it’s all worth it in the end. Even pushing a limousine out of the snow!”

“It was very brave of you to risk your shoes like that.”

“Oh, darling, please! It’s the principle of the thing, I just bought new ones.”

Jim’s hand slides onto his thigh under the tablecloth, warm and strong, and Freddie shivers. He touches the back of Jim’s hand with his fingertips, tracing back to his wrist, and Jim turns his hand, lacing their fingers together. It’s sweet and lovely and hurts Freddie’s chest, like his ribs are being crushed. His imagination always runs wild at these times, and he can just picture them sitting like this at dinners with the band, or those fucking record people, or anyone under the sun, holding hands under the table where no one can see, home captured between their palms. It would be _perfect_.

He squeezes Jim’s hand, too happy to pull back and hide himself. Nobody cares here anyway, it doesn’t matter if they see him clinging to Jim—he would lean his head on Jim’s shoulder except that Paul might be a bitch about it.

_Paul_. He’ll have to get rid of him, at least for right now. The plan will be to go to a club after this, that’s always the plan, but for once in his life Freddie doesn’t want to lead the way to the doors. He wants to stay _here_ , right here, alone with Jim, and indulge the sweetness. He’s not often in this mood, hasn’t really been, in truth, since the early days with David—it’s a neon warning sign, even _he_ can see that, but he pushes it aside, turns off the blazing marquee lights to seek out warm comfort in the dark, however fleeting it might be.

Resolute, he untangles his hand from Jim’s—a loss, but a necessary one—and pushes his chair back. “Be back in a tick, dear,” he says into Jim’s ear, bouncing to his feet. He catches Phoebe’s eye across the table and walks to the kitchen, trailing his fingers across the back of Jim’s neck on his way, thrilling at such an open display of forbidden affection. Jim’s eyes follow him, he can feel them on his back, piercing him through to his core.

(Dangerous, you’re courting disaster, run now while you still can—)

But he already knows he won’t. He never does. He loves too deeply, too quickly for fleeing to ever be an option.

(And what do _you_ know of love?)

He’s frowning at the countertop when Phoebe enters the kitchen, gentle, reliable Phoebe, who only has to ask, “Would you like another drink?” to ease some of the tension in his chest. Phoebe’s like a portable mother, with all the built-in home remedies and gentle touches Freddie could really ask for, and he feels better just for having him in the room.

“You know me, darling, I’ll never turn down alcohol if it’s offered.” Freddie leans against the stove and watches Phoebe bustle about with Freddie’s glass and the good vodka, pulled from beneath the sink. His quiet efficiency is soothing. Casting a wary eye at the doorway, making sure that Paul didn’t follow them in, Freddie says, “I don’t want to hit the clubs tonight.”

To his credit, Phoebe doesn’t stumble in his cocktail-making following this extraordinary pronouncement. “What do you want to do instead?” he asks, locating the little glass stirrer by the cutting board. It clatters in the drink, just softly, like a tiny bell.

Fretfully, Freddie bites at his thumbnail, still watching the door. “Stay here,” he mumbles.

“With Jim?” Phoebe glances at him, knowingly, and withdraws the stirrer. Thoughtfully, he rinses it off in the sink. When Freddie doesn’t respond, he adds, kindly, “There’s nothing wrong with that, Freddie. I think he prefers quiet nights in, to be honest.”

Freddie’s chest twinges. “ _I_ don’t.”

“Tonight, you do,” Phoebe points out. “Don’t overthink it, Fred. If you want to stay in, stay in—I’m sure he’ll stay with you.”

“Everyone else wants to go out, though, darling, you _know_ that.”

Phoebe hums, but like he’s thinking. He knows Freddie’s terror of disappointing people. He hands Freddie his drink. “Well,” he says after a moment, “it’s not like we can all go in one car, can we? Or like you’ll be the first one out the door,” he adds cheekily.

“Oh, fuck you,” Freddie says, without much venom or conviction. They’re both well aware that Phoebe is right.

“So take your time getting ready, and I’ll get everyone else on their way. Then I’ll forget about you and Jim.” Phoebe shrugs. “Simple enough. They’ll all be too plastered to be upset that you didn’t show.”

“Ooh, a proper escapade,” Freddie says. It curdles his stomach, just a little, the idea of abandoning his guests like this—but picturing the hours and _hours_ of forced socializing he’d have to go through otherwise before he could bring Jim back here and get fucked is far more unbearable. “Well, I suppose this is what I pay you for.”

“Coming up with ways for you to escape social obligations?”

“No, making it possible for me to get fucked whenever I please,” Freddie says archly, grinning as he takes a deep swig of the vodka tonic.

To his surprise, Phoebe looks away. “Thought that was more Paul’s area,” he says. He sounds cheerful enough, but there’s something off there.

Freddie laughs to cover up his confusion. “It’s a job that takes more than one person, I suppose.”

“Look, Freddie, about Jim—” Phoebe begins, but whatever he’s about to say is cut off when Paul joins them, his smile bright and hard, and Freddie’s stomach flips; he’s upset about something.

“What are you ladies chatting about?” Paul asks, sliding up to Freddie’s side and putting a hand on his hip. His grip is hot and hard, even though Freddie’s jeans.

“Plans for tonight,” Freddie says coldly. Because it’s a sort-of truth, no quaver in his voice gives him away, and he’s able to twist free of Paul’s hand. He steps toward the other room and what he really wants right now—a different voice, different hands. _Jim_. “When can we manage the pudding, Phoebe? I imagine most of us are itching for a night out.”

“With Paul here to help carry, we’ll have it out in just a moment,” Phoebe says, mild as ever.

Paul’s obviously starting to second-guess his decision to come back here, but it’s not like he can say no and he knows it. He sighs. “Right, what do you need my help with?” he asks, only slightly petulantly.

“I’ll go tell them what’s next, shall I?” Freddie says, edging through the doorway. Before either of his assistants can reply, he makes his escape, hurrying back to the main room.

In Freddie’s absence, the table has emptied out, his dinner guests scattering to couches and chairs with their drinks. Jim has also left his seat, but he’s turned to the piano, sitting quietly on the stool and looking out the window, his beautifully gentle face thoughtful, contemplative. For half a second, Freddie considers just watching him—he’s lovely like this, so quiet and sweet—but he’d much rather _know_ what Jim is thinking, rather than spend his time wondering about it.

So he goes to join him on the piano seat, just like their first time together. Jim looks up as he approaches, features lightening with fond recognition, washing away all dark thoughts with his smile. “There you are,” Jim says.

Freddie can’t help smiling in return, happiness blooming beneath his heart. “Here I am,” he agrees, sitting down and pressing himself to Jim’s side. “Did you miss me?”

“Of course I missed you.” Jim finds out his hand between them and squeezes his fingers briefly. “I like you, Freddie.”

Ducking his head, grinning, blushing, Freddie leans his full weight into Jim, feeling delightfully small and delicate against Jim’s broad shoulder. He can’t wait for later, when they can be alone again—the longing aches in him, on the verge of unbearable. “I like you too, Jim,” Freddie says shyly. “What I know of you, anyway. You’ve hardly said anything about yourself, darling, and I want to know you better. You must tell me about your day.”

“My day was very boring,” Jim says self-consciously. “Really, you don’t want to hear about it.”

“But I _do_ want to hear about it,” Freddie insists, earnest. He turns so he can peer up into Jim’s eyes. “I want to hear about _you_ , Jim. I suppose you don’t have to tell me about your day if you don’t want to, but—I’d like to know you. More than just that you’re amazing at fucking me senseless,” he adds slyly.

He’s delighted when Jim flushes bright red. “ _Freddie_ ,” he moans, glancing around the room as though to make sure nobody overheard. “You can’t just say that _out loud_.”

“Why not?” Freddie asks, smirking. “It’s _true_.” But Jim is obviously embarrassed and much more reluctant to discuss this sort of thing in company than Freddie is, so he backs off—if Peter could see him now, he’d faint with shock. “I really do want to know more, darling,” he says. “About you, I mean.” He fiddles with his glass in his lap, looks up at Jim through his eyelashes.

Jim visibly softens. “Well, all right.” He leans back against the piano; the lid’s shut over the keys, at just the right height for him to rest his elbows on. Freddie eyes his shoulders and chest with interest. “What do you want to know?”

Freddie smiles. _Everything._ “Whatever you’ll tell me, darling.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I ended up cutting this chapter in half because it was threatening to get way too ridiculously long, so the next part will be up at some point. We'll pick up right where we left off!
> 
> Thanks for sticking with me so far, guys! My plan is to update on Mondays (and it's an hour into Monday where I am, so eh, good enough). Will I update on a weekly basis? Will I ever update on time? Who knows! Keep reading to find out, the suspense is real.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jim doesn't know what baklava is but rather enjoys it once he's tried it. Paul is still a dick. Freddie offers to buy Japan but mostly wants to have sex, specifically with Jim.

As he mentioned before, briefly, Jim’s a hairdresser at the Savoy—Freddie’s never been but he knows where it is—and he doesn’t love the management but he does like the work. It’s something Freddie can’t really imagine, but Jim is obviously sincere, especially when he talks about his regular customers, the ones he really gets to know.

His true passions, though, are gardening and carpentry.

“Carpentry?” Freddie repeats. Phoebe’s just making the rounds with the pudding—delicately flaking baklava that they’ve had a couple of times before and Freddie’s actually eaten; he suspects an ulterior motive in the selection—and hands Freddie two little plates with a small smile. “What the fuck do you mean, carpentry?” he asks, taking them distractedly. “I think one of these is yours, dear.” He offers them both to Jim.

“Oh, thank you.” Jim selects a plate, their fingers brushing as he takes it, and Freddie shivers. “I used to build things, back home,” he says, poking at the baklava tentatively with his fork. “Tables, chairs, that sort of thing. I don’t really have room to do it at my current place, unfortunately.”

“Well!” Freddie glances at his large hands and burly arms with more appreciation than before, something he wouldn’t have thought possible. He can’t even begin to imagine how someone would go about building a table from scratch—perhaps Jim could show him, in bed, with Freddie as the pliant wood, Jim’s strong hands sliding over his skin, positioning him—

He bites his lower lip. “Aren’t you handy,” he says huskily, stabbing at his own serving of baklava haphazardly. When he glances up through his eyelashes, Jim’s looking back at him, heat in his dark eyes. In the nick of time, Freddie remembers that they’re in his sitting room, in the middle of a dinner party, and he can’t very well throw himself on Jim _just_ yet. He forces himself to look away, down at the pudding, and mashes it further with his fork, mangling it until it looks, conceivably, like he might have nibbled at it. “What about gardening, then, darling?” he asks.

“I help my landlady with her garden—she’s getting on in years but she appreciates having a better back garden than the neighbors.”

“Oh, aren’t you a dear,” Freddie flutters, and this time he can’t help leaning into Jim’s side. “If _I_ had a garden I would hire you to take care of it for me.”

Jim raises his eyebrows, smiling. “I’m not a _professional,_ Freddie.” He tastes the baklava, gingerly, and looks at it in some surprise. His second bite is much larger.

“Don’t be modest, darling, I’m sure you’re wonderful,” Freddie says loyally, though he can’t possibly know. He’s met Jim all of three times and he’s certainly never seen any of his gardening efforts. “Anyway, you must be better than I am. I’m hopeless.” He looks out across the room, full of people he doesn’t know and Phoebe, Paul, and Jim. “One day, I’ll own a massive house,” he says. “It absolutely must have a garden, a _proper_ one. You can come tend it.”

“What’s a proper garden, then?” Jim’s scraping the last drizzling of honey off his plate, sucking them off his fork, cheeks hollowing.

Momentarily, Freddie forgets what they’re talking about. “Oh, you know,” he says vaguely, then, “Oh! Trees, darling—real grown trees—and room for a pond. I want to have koi, like they do in Japan.”

“Have you been to Japan?” Jim asks, eyes lighting up, and Freddie beams—he can’t help it.

“I _love_ Japan,” he gushes. He squirms on the piano stool, too excited at the thought of Japan to sit still. “I’d go back tomorrow if I could—oh, darling, it’s so beautiful there! And the people are so kind. And the _art!_ I’d buy up the whole country if it were possible. You really can’t imagine, dear, until you’ve been. You _have_ to go, it’s lovely, we always have such a lovely time when we’re there.”

“It does sound nice,” Jim says wistfully. “I think I’ve only ever seen pictures—in a book.”

Freddie waves a hand dismissively. “Pictures can’t do it justice, darling, you have to see Japan in person!”

“Well,” Jim says, “maybe one day.”

“You’ll love it,” Freddie insists. “I just _know_ you will.” Because _he_ loves Japan, and it seems unlikely—altogether impossible—that Jim won’t love it too. That they won’t see it together, someday, Freddie showing Jim all his favorite things so they’ll become Jim’s favorites too.

(You fool, what are you _doing?_ )

Fortuitously—a first for tonight—that’s when Paul appears. “Everyone’s just about ready to go, Freddie, when you are,” he says. “Pudding’s finished.” He glances down at Jim’s empty plate and Freddie’s full one.

“Well _I’m_ not ready,” Freddie says huffily. He stands, dropping his baklava onto the top of the piano for someone else to take care of. “Wait for me, darling,” he says to Jim, and sweeps through the sitting room to the bathroom. He knows without having to turn around that Paul is following him.

“Freddie—” Paul begins, catching his elbow as he ducks through the door, and Freddie shoves him off, suddenly enraged.

“Fuck _off_ , Paul!”

Paul does back off, but only slightly, so they’re still hidden beyond the doorway. “All right, Freddie,” he says quickly, “all right. I’m not—I’m just worried about you.”

“ _Why?_ What the _fuck_ is there to—”

“I just know this situation, Fred, that’s all,” Paul says gently, weathering Freddie’s venomous glare without flinching. “You’ve been here before, remember? Do you really want to go through all that again?”

“It’s not your _fucking_ job to tell me what to do,” Freddie says furiously. “ _I_ give the orders around here, or don’t you _fucking_ remember?”

“Freddie—”

“I don’t want to fucking _hear it,_ Paul!”

Paul just looks at him for a moment, eyes sad. “Okay,” he says at last. “I’m here if you need me, Fred, all right? Please remember that.” He backs out of the room, closing the door gently behind him.

Deprived of the opportunity to slam the door, Freddie locks it violently instead, but the motion isn’t nearly as cathartic. Seething, he storms to the mirror and glares at his own reflection, gripping the counter until his knuckles ache. There’s a high flush in his cheeks; it’s hugely unattractive, like he’s feverish, and only makes him angrier.

How _dare_ Paul bring up David—and twice, all in one night! He knows perfectly well how Freddie only likes to talk about that on his own terms, and even then just rarely, and to dredge the whole mess up again when it doesn’t even _matter_ —it’s not like this thing with Jim is at all the same, after all—

(Isn’t it? Even _you’re_ not stupid enough to believe that.)

Breathing out harshly, Freddie turns away from the mirror, pressing his hands to his face. No, this _isn’t_ the same; he won’t allow it to be. Whatever this is with Jim, it won’t get that far.

But that’s more than enough about David—Freddie isn’t the mood to dwell on his own enormous fuckups. He wants to feel _good_ ; he’s _planning_ on it. David will just fuck that up.

So, as people bustle about outside, calling to each other (and Freddie) as they get ready, he focuses on what he _wants_ to happen tonight: getting his brains fucked out by Jim. He wants those big, clever hands on him, and only him—for tonight, at least. That will do nicely.

Paul yells through the door that they’re ready to go, is _he_ ready yet? Phoebe also makes a token effort to collect him, but his time in the theater must have taught him something because he sounds utterly convincing. In any case, Freddie ignores both of them and fusses with his clothes, his hair, posing and pouting in front of the mirror and trying to convince himself that he looks good, he’s attractive, men will want him. By the time the flat has quieted down, he’s actually managed it.

In the end, Jim turns up at the door, cautiously coaxing. “Freddie?” he calls through the door. “Everyone else has left but Peter’s still waiting for us. You ready to go?”

“Oh, darling, I don’t know,” Freddie trills. He bites his lips to redden them.

“You don’t know?” Jim repeats, sounding almost reluctantly amused. “If you don’t hurry, Peter will leave without us!”

Freddie smirks at his own reflection, giving his hair one last artful tousle. “I should hope so,” he says, turning the knob to reveal Jim standing in the hallway. He leans in the doorway, shoulder propped on the frame, hip cocked. “My plan is for Phoebe to forget us here entirely.”

Jim blinks at him, confused. “You don’t want to go to Heaven?”

“What I _want_ ,” Freddie says distinctly, “is to be left here, all alone—just us.”

At once, Jim’s expression clears, a smile lightening the corners of his mouth. “Oh, I see.” He steps closer, pulling Freddie gently away from the doorway by his waist, Freddie’s heart fluttering. “Won’t you be lonely?”

“I don’t think so.” Freddie trails his fingers up Jim’s burly arms, delighting at their size and strength, and at last gives in to temptation, ducking his face into Jim’s throat. “Not as long as you’re here with me,” he whispers, flicking his tongue out to taste. He follows it up a moment later with his mouth, sucking a small mark, and Jim groans in his ear.

“I’ll be happy to keep you company, Freddie.” With something very like tenderness, Jim kisses his temple, and Freddie melts into him, blinking back a hot, confusing rush of tears. If Jim notices he doesn’t say anything, but he does gather Freddie close, wrap him securely in his big arms, in an embrace that touches something tender deep inside him. There’s an edge of that pleasure-pain that he craves in bed, but more innocent, without any erotic connections, and somehow that sharpens it all the more. He can hardly stand it, he wants to rip himself free, and simultaneously he wants more, he can’t get enough.

Desperate for any distraction, Freddie’s hands find fistfuls of Jim’s hair to grip, turning his head down for a kiss. Jim’s mouth is just as good as it was the first time, firm as it pushes back against him, his moustache scraping his upper lip. He tastes a little bit like the honey-soaked baklava they had after dinner, but mostly like himself. Freddie tugs at him harder, demandingly, fighting to move his head where he wants it, but Jim takes his time and will not be rushed. He’s stronger than Freddie so he gets his way, but it’s only to back Freddie against the wall, rub his palms up and down his sides, and gentle the kiss, gentle this, gentle _him_.

Freddie breaks away with a whine, tipping his head back. “Just fuck me,” he gasps. “I don’t need a lot of foreplay. Come on, _Christ_ , Jim.”

“No,” Jim says resolutely. He runs his mouth up the column of Freddie’s neck, across his jaw, kisses him again. “We rushed before, so now I’m going to take my time with you.”

Heat bursts through Freddie’s body from the pit of his stomach; his legs tremble. “Fuck,” he breathes. “Oh _fuck_.”

“Should I take that to mean you’ll let me?” Jim takes his hands from his hair, holding them between his own. His fingers are sturdy and calloused, the opposite of Freddie’s, which he cradles like they’re something precious, made of glass. He presses a soft kiss to Freddie’s knuckles.

Freddie swallows, hard. “Yes,” he whispers. “I’ll let you do whatever you want to me, darling.”

Jim kisses him, thoughtfully releasing his hands so Freddie can clutch at him. He holds Freddie close by the waist, thumbs rubbing the bones of his hips in a way that’s both soothing and incredibly arousing, just like most things about Jim. Freddie’s gone weak all over and Jim’s more or less holding him upright, and it’s so _easy_ for him—he’s so exactly what Freddie likes that he’s more than half-convinced he must have dreamt him up.

He grabs at Jim’s upper arms in an attempt to persuade himself that this is more than a runaway fancy, taking in his skin, his hair, all covering muscles that flex when Jim takes him more securely by the hips, hitching him higher in his arms. He could reach the floor with his toes, if he wanted to, if he stretched; instead, he winds his legs around Jim, whimpering into his mouth.

One of Jim’s hands moves to cup his thigh, steadying him, and then Freddie’s back meets the wall, so gently, not the hard slam he’s used to. _Everything_ is gentle, from Jim’s lips coaxing his mouth open to Jim’s hands stroking his waist and leg to Jim’s hips pressing into him, softly rocking.

Freddie doesn’t know what to _do_ with himself in the face of whatever this is. His fingers tear at Jim’s shirt until the fabric creaks in protest; he hears himself whine, pleading for _something_ , though if asked he couldn’t say what.

Jim leaves off kissing him to suck bruises onto his throat, and Freddie arches into him with a cry, trembling.

“Fuck, _Jim!_ ” he moans, breathing hard into Jim’s hair.

“Yes, Freddie?” Jim’s mouth brushes his collarbone, his Adam’s apple, lingers at the line of his jaw. They’re pressed so closely together that Freddie can _feel_ him speaking, his voice rumbling low in his chest. It’s so _fucking_ hot.

Grabbing Jim’s face between his palms, Freddie crashes their lips together, kissing him hard, with teeth. Jim lets him, pushes him more firmly into the wall, the hand on his thigh creeping back to his ass, and Freddie groans, bucking into the touch. He’s hard, they’re _both_ hard.

“Please,” Freddie says, and has to repeat himself because he’s kissing Jim when he speaks and the word comes out as jumbled nonsense. “ _Please_ , Jim, please just fuck me, I want you so much.”

“I told you, Freddie,” Jim says, “I want to take my time with you.” He nuzzles into Freddie’s throat, moustache and breath tickling.

Freddie whines. “ _Darling,_ you can’t _do_ this to me, I’ll _die!_ ”

At this, Jim actually laughs, a quick, startled bark, and pulls back to look Freddie in the face. “Well, aren’t _you_ a dramatic little thing!” he says, but he’s smiling, like he can’t help himself, and Freddie calms a bit before he can properly panic about fucking this all up—Jim’s not pushing him away, he’s not dropping him, he’s not angry that Freddie’s behaving so childishly. He does let go of Freddie’s hip, but only to touch his cheek, run his thumb to his lower lip, and Freddie takes advantage of the situation and bites down on the pad, just a quick nip. “I guess we’d better get you to the bedroom,” Jim says lowly, “just to be safe. What do you think?”

“Yes,” Freddie breathes, grabbing Jim again to kiss him. “ _Yes,_ darling, yes!” His heart beats high in his throat with relief.

Like he knows how close Freddie just came to panic, Jim spends several long moments kissing him against the wall, gently stroking his throat and chest with broad, calloused fingers, until Freddie’s loose and relaxed in his arms once more. Until Freddie holds onto him quietly, fingers carding through Jim’s hair, mouth moving wetly in time with Jim’s, and his heartbeat has calmed as much as it’s going to when he has a man holding him and a hard cock pushing against his inner thigh.

Jim’s mouth skates along his cheek and he closes his teeth on his earlobe, just gently. “Right, then—hold tight and no squirming. I don’t want to drop you.”

“Are you going to carry me to bed?” Freddie asks, delighted. He licks a stripe up Jim’s neck, happily winds his arms around his shoulders and tightens his legs around his hips. “You’re so fucking hot, darling,” he tells him. “I _love_ a man strong enough to carry me around.”

Jim laughs again, squeezing Freddie in his arms. “Freddie, you don’t weigh anything—that’s _every_ man.”

“Don’t argue with a compliment, Jim Hutton. Besides, dear, I _know_ how strong you are—strong enough to throw me around and leave the most _delicious_ bruises, I can’t _begin_ to tell you—”

“ _Freddie,_ ” Jim groans, hiding his burning face in Freddie’s shoulder.

“I felt you _all day_ , darling,” Freddie says into his ear with hot relish. He arches pointedly, rubbing himself against whatever parts of Jim he can reach without falling off. “Every time I sat down I could feel where you’d been inside me—”

“ _Christ,_ ” Jim says hoarsely, and peels the both of them away from the wall, stumbling to Freddie’s bedroom door.

Triumphant, Freddie tips his head back and laughs. “Mmm, _yes,_ darling, I’ve wanted you to fuck me again since the moment you left—what about you?”

“The _mouth_ on you, Freddie,” Jim says, finally fumbling the door open. He kicks it shut behind them, plunging the room into grey darkness, lit only by a streetlamp leaking in a thin strip through the curtains, and stumbles through scattered clothes to toss Freddie onto the bed.

Freddie goes willingly, rolling onto his side to switch on the lamp sitting on the nearest bedside table. He wants to _see_ —see more than what the streetlamp will show him, anyway—and is immediately grateful for the soft, buttery glow when he flops onto his back and Jim crawls on top of him, eyes hot and intense. One large palm skates up Freddie’s side and Jim kisses him into the pillows, nudging his legs apart with his knee.

Moaning, Freddie surges into the kiss, pulling at Jim’s white vest so he can get his hands on the skin of his lower back. He has such a sturdy, manly build that it kicks up the beat of Freddie’s heart; he shivers when Jim returns the favor and pushes Freddie’s t-shirt up, touching his stomach, his ribs. Beneath Jim like this, held to the mattress by his broad shoulders and calloused hands, he feels wonderfully small and delicate, completely at Jim’s mercy, enveloped and on the verge of overwhelmed by the man on top of him.

He tugs at Jim’s shirt, demanding, and whines, “Take it _off_ , darling.”

Jim kisses him once more, briefly, and sits up to do as he’s told, grinning. Freddie watches, transfixed, as he peels the vest off easily, tossing it aside, the muscles in his chest and arms working below his skin. _Fuck_ , he’s gorgeous. Freddie can’t actually believe his luck, to have him here in _his_ bed.

“Come here,” Jim says, beckoning, and Freddie sits up at once, curious. Jim takes hold of the hem of his t-shirt and peels it off, Freddie raising his arms for it automatically, and as Jim gets rid of that too he crawls into his lap, utterly unable to resist touching him for one more second.

Their mouths meet, hands grasping eagerly at newly bare skin, and Freddie grinds down on Jim’s hard cock, still trapped in his jeans. Their chests rub together—Jim’s hairy too, not quite as much as Freddie, but it’s still terribly masculine and attractive, and Freddie shudders when the hair on Jim’s chest scrapes his nipples. Jim’s large hands smooth down his back, and Freddie arches into him, moaning loudly, nails digging into Jim’s shoulders. He’s hot, over-sensitive. Part of him wants to cry.

Quickly, he fumbles with the button on Jim’s jeans, and Jim bucks into his hand, swearing.

“Wait, Freddie, wait—”

“I want to see you,” Freddie insists. He works the zip down and sticks his hand inside Jim’s pants, finding out his enormous, rigid cock. It’s just as delicious as he remembers, hot and throbbing in his palm, and he gives it a quick couple of strokes, Jim straining into him, groaning.

“ _Fuck,_ Freddie,” Jim pants raggedly. His own hands fall to Freddie’s jeans, undoing them with more grace than Freddie had managed, and Freddie moans when he touches him. Jim pulls him closer by his hip so they can rub together, Freddie gasping and Jim muffling his groan by biting down on his shoulder, a sharp burn swiftly soothed away by Jim’s tongue.

It’s good—too good—if he doesn’t put a stop to it, he can easily see them coming like this, and that isn’t what he wants, not tonight. Freddie catches Jim’s chin in his free hand, guiding him up for a kiss, licking into his mouth. “Jim,” he says against his lips, wheedling, “you _promised._ ”

“So demanding,” Jim says, but he’s smiling, and he releases Freddie’s cock, reaching around to brace him by the small of the back instead. Carefully, so carefully, he lowers him to the bed, and Freddie loses his breath as though he’d been thrown, biting his lip hard to hold back another resurgence of tears. He doesn’t _understand_.

This time, at least, Jim doesn’t seem to notice, too focused on helping Freddie peel his jeans off. The evening air is cool on his bare skin; he has goosebumps; he suddenly feels very alone, for all that Jim is right there, pulling off Freddie’s socks. He digs his nails into his palms, forcing himself still.

(Don’t clutch, you stupid little faggot, nobody wants to fuck a clingy child, you’ll drive him off—)

“Freddie?” Jim’s suddenly leaning over him, very carefully not caging him in, a gentle hand resting on his shoulder. “Hey, Freddie, you all right?”

Freddie blinks up at him, at his warm, kind, concerned face, and feels a rush of warmth as though he’s just stepped into a hot bath. It’s a strange relief, so intense that he can’t even be mortified at his own weakness. “Of course, darling,” he breathes, reaching up to cradle Jim’s cheeks in his palms, like he can catch that kindness, that light, and carry it away with him. “You’re here, aren’t you?”

Cautiously, Jim lowers himself on top of him, until they’re fully pressed together and he’s close enough to press a kiss to Freddie’s jaw, his mouth. “If you’re sure,” he says, still so gentle.

Freddie doesn’t know how to explain that all he apparently wanted was Jim so doesn’t even bother trying. “Of course, darling,” he says again. “I’m _very_ sure.” To make his point, he spreads his legs and arches his hips into Jim, rubbing their hard cocks together, and delights at the way Jim’s eyelids flutter.

“Well,” Jim says breathlessly, “if you say so.”

“I _do_ say so.” Freddie puts on his best sultry expression, trailing his fingertips along Jim’s shoulders and tipping up quickly to bite at his mouth. “Now are you going to _fuck me_ or what, dear?” he says, petulant, falling back to the bed in a huff. “I’ve been waiting for _far_ too long!”

Jim kisses him as he’s laughing, and it’s sweetly uncoordinated and effortlessly perfect and everything Freddie has ever wanted. His entire chest seizes up and he hides his face in Jim’s shoulder, trying to catch his breath around the pain.

(I want, I want, I _want—_ )

(But you can’t have it, you know that, you _know_ you can never have it, why do you _do_ this to yourself?)

(Can’t I—maybe this once—?)

(You’ll fuck it up, just like you fuck _everything_ up, because you’re a stupid little slut and you kill all the love you touch stone-dead.)

(Oh, don’t, don’t—)

(Are you going to _cry_ now? What do _you_ have to cry about? You know full well he was right about you. He’d know better than anyone.)

Blunt fingers coax him from hiding and Jim kisses him, slipping his tongue into his mouth, leaning all his weight onto one broad arm. His other hand finds its way between Freddie’s thighs, slick with lube—though when _that_ happened, Freddie has no idea, he missed it entirely as he fretted, and immediately resolves to be fully present from now on, here with _Jim_ and Jim only. He kisses Jim back eagerly, moaning; arches into his fingers, begging as best he can without words.

Jim gives him a finger a second later, and Freddie forces himself to relax around it. This part will just take longer if he doesn’t and he’s had to wait so _very_ long already. His head falls back, his nails digging into Jim’s back, and he sighs, gathering the tension in his lungs and throwing it out his mouth.

“There you go,” Jim murmurs, kissing his throat, his collarbone, “just relax. I’ve got you.”

Freddie has to swallow before he can respond. “I know, darling,” he says suggestively. “You can have more— _mm, oh_ —of me whenever you like.”

Jim turns his finger again, rubbing the pad along Freddie’s inner walls, and it’s so _good_. They’ve barely done _anything_.

“Oh, _more_ , darling,” Freddie groans, squirming restlessly until Jim sits up on his knees and takes his hip to hold him still. Even that makes him harder—Jim controlling him with _one hand_ , Jesus _fucking_ Christ—and he tugs at his own hair, fighting hard to focus. “ _Fuck,_ Jim, I _can’t, please_.”

In response, Jim slides a second finger into him, and the stretch is _lovely_. There’s only a slight sting, he’s not exactly loose or anything from Paul last night but—adjusted, rather, _ready_ for it. _More_ than ready for it, if he’s honest, doing his best to arch into Jim’s touch when he’s pinned to the bed. He realizes that he’s panting, loudly, breath catching on little moans, and Jim will be able to see his teeth—the fucking things are on display. With a self-conscious flush, he covers his mouth with his palm, hot breath leaking between his fingers.

“Oh, shh, none of that,” Jim says immediately. To Freddie’s disappointment, he lets go of his hip to grasp his wrist, gently peeling his hand away from his mouth. It’s just like last time, only they’re not drunk now—not like they were before, anyway—and Jim surely knows what he looks like by now. Freddie lets it happen out of sheer bewilderment, staring at Jim as he laces their hands together, bringing Freddie’s knuckles to his lips for a kiss. “No need for that,” Jim says, smiling. “I want to see you.”

“Darling,” Freddie begins, only he’s not sure how to continue and falls silent. Jim’s stretching fingers crook inside him, pressing precisely, and he cries out, the shock of pleasure burning through every nerve, lighting him up from head to toe. He’s _glowing_. “ _Fuck,_ Jim, fuck, yes!”

“Like that,” Jim says, pleased, and he kisses Freddie’s hand once more before releasing him. “Let me see?”

Blearily, Freddie nods—he can hardly _see_ , let alone think or protest, with Jim rubbing him like that—and knots his hands in the comforter, fighting hard to stay still, to let Jim watch him with those heavy, pleased eyes. Jim touches his hip again, feels up to his waist, pulls one of his legs wider. When he pushes a third finger inside, Freddie thinks he might actually cry.

“ _Fuck,_ Jim,” he says raggedly, and gropes blindly until he finds Jim’s free hand. “Please, darling, _please,_ I need you. Won’t you—won’t you fuck me? Please?”

Bending down to kiss his chest, tonguing at the jut of his ribs, Jim hums, considering. Freddie shudders under him, biting back (not very successfully) a sob when he bites a nipple. “I _did_ tell you I wanted to take my time with you, Freddie,” he reminds him.

“Oh, _please,_ ” Freddie says, despairing. “Please, darling, I—I need it so much—”

“Yeah?”

“ _Yes_ , Jim, _please_ , fuck!”

“Since you asked so nicely,” Jim says, and pulls his fingers out.

“Thank _fucking_ god,” Freddie gasps. He grabs at Jim’s belt loops with shaking fingers. “Take off your jeans first, darling, please, come on—let me see you too.”

Obligingly, Jim sits up, working his jeans off, and Freddie indulges himself, reaching down to take his own cock in hand while he watches. He could come if he stroked hard a few times, but he holds back, just touches himself lightly, smearing precome down the length as he shivers with anticipation. Jim’s dick, newly freed from his pants, is rigid and red against his stomach.

“I want that _in me,_ ” Freddie says, licking his lips at the thought, and this time Jim is past blushing.

Instead, he squeezes Freddie’s thigh, rubbing his thumb along the crease of his hip. “Do you?” he says lowly. “Come here, then. I want to look at you.” He holds out his hand and takes Freddie’s, pulling him upright, gently ushering him into his lap.

Freddie doesn’t often do it like this—it’s intimate, a constant embrace, and he always ends up wanting more than he can have—but it’s _Jim_. He can’t say no; more importantly, doesn’t want to say no, doesn’t want to redirect things somewhere safer. He straddles Jim’s legs willingly, Jim’s cock rubbing between his buttocks, and lets Jim kiss him, strong arms coming around his back, cradling him to a broad chest. He drapes a wrist over Jim’s shoulder, tangles the fingers of his other hand in his hair, moans deeply when Jim dips between them to grasp himself, positioning the tip of his dick at Freddie’s entrance.

It’s the work of a moment to sink down on him, though he’s big and this is the first Freddie’s had today—he rode Paul only last night and his muscles are, as they might say, well-trained. Jim’s prepared him well, too, though it took entirely too long, and at last, _at last,_ Freddie seats himself, devouring Jim’s groan with his mouth, his legs tight around his waist. Jim’s hot and thick and _so much_ inside him, filling him utterly, satisfying the terrible emptiness in his heart and wiping his mind clean of thought. He clings tightly, panting, little noises limping out of his throat, and Jim holds him just as close, palms smoothing up and down his back. He’s held, cherished, _loved—_

“Christ, Freddie, you’re so beautiful,” Jim murmurs, kissing him deeply. He rocks his hips, slowly at first, and when Freddie keens, jolting into him—oh, he’s so _deep_ , he’s in Freddie’s _stomach_ , he swears he can feel him in his throat, he’s choking on him—he does it again, harder. “Oh, fuck, _Freddie—_ "

Freddie has nothing coherent to add. Jim’s cock drives moans and whines from him as it scrambles his insides, scrambles his _brain_ , but that’s all he can manage. He digs his nails into Jim’s back, hard enough to bleed, and bounces on his dick in counterpoint, each thrust punching into him and driving out his breath, his voice. Jim’s rubbing his prostate on each stroke and it’s driving him _insane_ , his mind keeps whiting out. Jim keeps _kissing_ him, keeps touching him like he matters, keeps telling him that he’s lovely and perfect and so _good_.

Oh fuck, he can’t _think_.

“ _Jim,_ ” he manages at last, pressing their faces together and mostly failing at a kiss because he’s breathing so hard. “ _Fuck, Jim_ —”

“Freddie,” Jim whispers in return. He nuzzles into Freddie’s cheek, and he’s panting too. One of his hands falls to Freddie’s hip, squeezing.

Freddie tips his head back, staring sightlessly at the ceiling, and Jim hugs him close, envelops him in warm arms, at the same time as he scrapes Freddie’s prostate deep inside. He comes all at once, in a great rush, spinning apart into a thousand pieces all held together by Jim, who he can still feel holding him, gripping him hard. He screamed, he can tell by the burn in his throat, and he’s panting past it when Jim surges up into him, groaning, and comes as well, in a hot, thick gush. He’s pulsing, deep inside, Freddie can feel it, and it’s perfect, it’s indescribably perfect, he wants this always and forever, he’ll do _anything_ —

Exhausted, he slumps into Jim’s chest, curling his arms around him. They’re both panting, sticking together with sweat and come, and it should probably be disgusting but Freddie is always mush in the afterglow—wonderful, delightful mush, his body buzzing on a high but his brain turned down to zero. It’s even better like this (maybe the best like this), held close and safe in Jim’s arms, with Jim still inside him, leaking out of him, and he’s complete, whole. He never wants to move, afterwards.

At last, though, Jim softens enough to slip out, and Jim hugs him close for another moment before going to set him down. Freddie clings, suddenly frightened— _no, no, please—_

“Don’t leave me,” he blurts out, face pressed to Jim’s pulse. “I don’t want you to go.” A small, dim, faraway part of him recognizes how childish he sounds and is ashamed.

Immediately, Jim stops trying to put him down. “Freddie,” he says, gently, touching his jaw with soft fingertips. When Freddie finally works up the nerve to look at him, he smiles, and he’s as warm and kind as he’s ever been—just as beautiful, just as perfect. Freddie doesn’t deserve him, not in a million years.

“I promise, I’m not going anywhere,” Jim says. He kisses Freddie’s forehead, brushing a hand through his sweaty hair.

And Freddie believes him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> After some pedal to the metal writing, here we are, and it's still Monday where I live! I count that as a win.
> 
> In other news, I gave in and created a Tumblr, so you can all come find me and chat if you want! I am also oatrevolution on there, so... easy to track down, I guess? Haha.
> 
> Thanks for sticking with me so far and hope you enjoyed!


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Freddie's a brat, Jim's in (emotional) trouble, and the life of a recording artist is tough. Also featuring a guest appearance by Sid Vicious.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another warning for Paul Prenter. Just assume that if he's appearing in this fic, he's being a dick somehow, either blatantly or through emotional abuse.

Jim wakes slowly, gently, emerging from sleep to sunlight falling across his face. He shifts, rubbing a hand over his eyes, and the warm body curled against his chest squirms closer at the movement.

Freddie’s still asleep when he glances down, but there’s a little frown on his expressive face, his delicate hands knotted at Jim’s sides. Jim strokes his back, tracing a finger down his spine, and Freddie melts, tension washing away. He sighs, soft, turning his cheek into Jim’s heart.

Smiling, Jim runs a hand through Freddie’s sex-wild hair, teasing the curls around his knuckles. He’s so lovely, small and pliant and perfect in the crook of Jim’s arm, lashes dark and tender on his prominent cheeks. His mouth is slightly open and he can just see his teeth peeking out over his bottom lip—this is what Freddie looks like when he’s not hiding his overbite; this is Freddie relaxed and at ease. The sweetness warms his chest.

Tipping his head back, still petting Freddie’s soft hair, Jim stares at the bedroom ceiling. It’s lit warm and gold with morning light, reflecting up from the carpet, the walls. He didn’t really notice the night before, but there are clothes _everywhere_ , small enough that they can only belong to Freddie, haphazardly stuffed back into drawers or kicked half-under the bed—the familiar jeans and t-shirts, but stranger, more exotic things too, in satin, velvet, and something shiny and stretchy he doesn’t actually know the name of. Jim feels the way the room looks, bright and messy and warmly domestic and filled with Freddie, this impossible man lying against him who burns so brightly, moans so prettily, and takes such obvious comfort from his touch.

He’s in trouble.

Pinching his nose, Jim sighs, then presses a kiss to Freddie’s head, inhaling the scent of his hair. Carefully, he slides out from under him, rubbing his shoulder when Freddie stirs, blinking blearily up at him, soft and sleepy and confused.

“It’s all right,” Jim says soothingly. “I’ll be right back. Just need the loo.”

“Oh,” Freddie mumbles. His voice is hoarse, and he reaches up to rub at one eye, childishly. “Do you promise?”

“I promise.” Jim kisses him, just gently, because he can’t help himself. “Go back to sleep, Freddie. I’ll be back before you know it.”

“Okay,” Freddie says, quietly, almost sadly. He catches Jim’s hand, squeezes his fingers, then lets him go. As Jim climbs out of the bed, searching for his discarded pants and jeans among the scattered clothes on the floor, he sees Freddie burrowing deeper in the blankets, pulling the comforter up high around his shoulders.

“Do you want some tea or coffee while I’m up?” Jim pulls his jeans over his hips, zipping them up.

Freddie shifts under the blankets, long fingers curling around the edge. “Tea would be lovely, darling.” He sounds marginally less forlorn now.

“Tea it is, then.” Crossing to the door, Jim can’t help but glance back as he opens it, and Freddie’s looking out at him from his nest with big, sad dark eyes. “I’ll be right back,” he repeats. Promises.

“Okay,” Freddie says again. “I’ll be waiting.”

Jim smiles at him and ducks into the hallway, closing the door behind him.

The flat’s quiet—quieter than Jim’s ever seen it—like they’re the only two people here, though he discovers that this is not actually the case when he stops by the kitchen after the bathroom and discovers Peter Freestone installed at a small table, newspaper spread out before him and cup of tea by his elbow.

“Peter,” Jim says—surprised, though he shouldn’t be.

Peter glances up, his whole face smiling. He’s always been a very kind person. “Good morning, Jim.”

Wishing he’d stopped to remember that Freddie’s some kind of famous musician and therefore unlikely to be alone, and _especially_ that his old friend Peter works for him, Jim crosses his arms across his bare chest self-consciously. He can picture his vest lying on the floor of Freddie’s bedroom perfectly clearly, where it’s of no use to him now. “Did you have a good night? I’m so sorry that we never came down—”

“Oh, don’t worry about it,” Peter says, waving a large hand dismissively. “Freddie set it up with me beforehand. I just went home to get some sleep.” He smiles, eyes crinkling up. “Trust me, I was as pleased as you to get out of clubbing for one night.”

Jim rubs the back of his head. “I didn’t really think it was your scene. Still, I’m sorry. I should have come down to tell you.”

But Peter just shrugs. “Fred was involved. I understand.” He traces the handle of his teacup, as always so precise and gentle, just the same as he had been at Selfridge’s the last time Jim saw him.

Something in his voice, though, gives Jim pause. “How long have you worked for him?”

“Not long, really. He came in to do a charity event for the ballet earlier this year and took a shine to me—not _that_ kind of shine,” he adds with a smile. “He had Paul hire me on immediately afterwards. You remember Paul Prenter—the other Irishman who was here last night, I think I heard him introduce himself.”

As it happens, Jim _does_ remember Paul Prenter, chiefly as a nosy asshole who stared at Freddie too much—Freddie, who isn’t _anything_ to Jim, but feels like he should be. “I think he said he was Freddie’s other personal assistant,” he says, and his own voice is betraying him, hinting at more than he wants to reveal.

“I do most of the day-to-day work these days,” Peter says. He’s returned to fiddling with his teacup. “Paul’s the senior member of the team, I suppose.” He laughs, but this, too, is off. Peter has always been too kind to be able to lie properly. Suddenly, he stands up. “Can I get you a cup of tea? We have Earl Grey.”

“Oh,” Jim says, remembering, the thought temporarily driving Paul Prenter out of his mind entirely, “I’m supposed to bring tea back to Freddie. Is that what he drinks?”

“Always. One thing you should know—” Peter bustles to the stove, putting the kettle back on a burner “—he’s _very_ particular.”

“Somehow, I think I could have guessed that,” Jim says, laughing, fighting back a blush at the thought of last night, Freddie alternately pushing, pulling, demanding, begging. An impossible, infuriating man, and Jim finds himself thoroughly—

_Enchanted._

Yes. That’s the word. Enchanted, caught under Freddie’s spell, helpless before him. Freddie has snared him with a look, with a smile, with his slender hand placed so trustingly in Jim’s.

_You’re moving too fast, Hutton._

But how can he be expected to resist?

Shaking his head, he rubs his neck, casting about for a new topic, though his mind is full of Freddie and will not stray far. He wants to question Peter further about Paul Prenter, but Peter’s so obviously uncomfortable with the subject and—and after all, Jim’s nobody to Freddie, he has no right to question how Paul looks at him. “Freddie calls you Phoebe?” he asks instead—it had truly puzzled him, last night, in among all the other goings-on that had demanded his attention.

Peter laughs. “Yes, it’s a bit of a stage tradition,” he says, and he’s smiling genuinely again. “He loves to give us all women’s names. Somehow, he decided that I should be Phoebe.” He shrugs, indulgent as a parent with a precocious child. “Everyone calls me Phoebe now.”

“Should I call you Phoebe too, then?” It should be ridiculous—in a lot of ways, it is—but in an odd way the name _does_ suit Peter, all soft consonants and gentle vowels, much like the man himself.

“If you’re going to stay around, then yes, I suppose you should. Nobody will know who you’re talking about if you call _me_ Peter.” Gently but firmly, Peter presses two cups of steaming tea into Jim’s hands. “Go on, then,” he says, graciously ignoring whatever awkward thing Jim’s face is currently doing. “Get him up if you can, he has to be in the studio later.”

“Me?”

“I was going to do it in a few minutes anyway, but he’ll be cross if I try while you’re still here,” Peter says wryly. “Seriously, Hutton, go on, before it gets cold.”

Jim does as he’s told, carefully making his way back down the hall with two full cups of hot tea. Getting back through the bedroom door is a bit of a job, and he’s honestly a bit proud of himself for managing it when he turns around to see Freddie sitting bolt upright in the bed, sheets tangled around his waist, arms tightly crossed and a venomous expression on his face.

“What _took_ you so long?” he demands.

Jim almost drops the tea, he’s so surprised. “I was getting the tea, like I said,” he says, frowning ever so slightly.

“No you _weren’t!_ I _heard_ you! Who were you talking to out there?”

“Pete—Phoebe,” Jim says, completely bewildered. “He made the tea for us.”

“Oh, _Phoebe!_ ” Freddie spits. “So _Phoebe_ can make you laugh, then, can he?”

“Freddie, you know—”

“I don’t _know_ anything!” Freddie explodes, and though Jim really should have seen it coming it’s somehow so sudden, like the lid on a pressure cooker coming off or a train derailing. “If you want Phoebe so much you should just go with _him!_ I’m sure he’ll be over the fucking _moon_.”

It’s like Jim’s brain can’t process quickly enough for what’s happening right in front of him. He’s still standing next to the door, holding the teacups like an idiot, carefully balanced so they don’t spill. “Freddie, he’s just a friend,” he says, trying to be reasonable in the face of whatever this is. “I haven’t seen him in a long time, of course I’m going to talk to him.”

“And I should believe that!”

“Where is this _coming_ from?”

“ _You_ , laughing with fucking _Phoebe_ out in the kitchen!”

“Freddie,” Jim begins, and he’s too shocked and confused to feel anything approaching real anger but his voice is still sharp, “why would I try to get with a _friend_ when _you’re_ right here?”

Freddie glares at him, eyes glittering in the morning light. Jim realizes, quite suddenly, that he’s on the verge of tears, just like he had been last night, and holding his eyes wide open because if he blinks they’ll spill down his cheeks.

“Listen,” Jim says, softening his tone, and he steps over to the bed to set the cups on the side table. “I was only asking Phoebe about how he got a job here with you. I was curious and I didn’t get a chance to ask last night. That’s all.”

Freddie looks away. “I don’t believe you.”

“He was making tea. What was I supposed to do? _Not_ talk to him?” Jim finds one of Freddie’s delicate hands, jammed in close to his side, and coaxes it free. Freddie lets him, lets his tightly-crossed arms unwind and fall to his lap, and Jim laces their fingers together. He’s suddenly very glad that he didn’t ask further about Paul Prenter; he doesn’t want anything to ruin this moment. “He says you like Earl Grey best,” he says, rubbing his thumb along the side of Freddie’s palm. “And he told me why you call him Phoebe. See? That’s all we talked about.”

Quickly, like he’s trying to hide the movement, Freddie wipes at his face with his free hand. “I don’t _care_ ,” he says, voice wobbling dangerously.

Despite everything, Jim is charmed. “Come here,” he says, tipping Freddie’s face towards him, and kisses him softly. His heart squeezes when Freddie melts into him, his whole body curling in Jim’s direction.

“You were away so _long,_ ” Freddie mumbles, and this, here, must be the heart of his complaint, because he hides himself in Jim’s shoulder as he says it. He wraps slender arms around Jim’s chest and holds tight.

“Well, I’m back now,” Jim says gently, “like I said I would be. And I brought tea, which Phoebe kindly made for us. Do you want one? While it’s still hot?”

Freddie doesn’t reply for a long moment, considering. At last, he says, “Yes, all right, I suppose.”

“Then sit up against the headboard.” Jim squeezes an elbow for emphasis. “I’ll sit next to you.”

Releasing him with some reluctance, Freddie pushes himself up the bed, watching Jim with eyes that are less shiny but still unblinking. He reminds Jim of a small, nervous animal, a little pet that’s been mistreated in the past but wants so badly to trust again. Jim wants to tell him all sorts of ridiculous things—that he’ll never hurt him; that he’ll keep him safe, keep anyone else from hurting him ever again—and has to forcibly remind himself that it isn’t _time_ for that, might _never_ be time for that. This is exactly what drove John away, all those months ago, Jim being too clingy, too _controlling_ ; he has to at least _try_ to learn from his mistakes.

Most men don’t seem to want a committed relationship, even if Jim does, even if he’s spent his life searching for just that. It’s wrong to force expectations on Freddie that he’s not sure Freddie even wants to bear.

Still, when he sits down next to Freddie, passing him a cup, and Freddie leans his head against his shoulder, he _wants_ him to want those same things. He wants this to be their life—a life they can share.

“Oh,” Freddie says suddenly, holding the teacup away from himself. His face is scrunched up in a grimace. “ _Hot._ ”

Jim laughs at the sheer incongruity of the moment—though it’s only in his own head—and clasps Freddie’s thigh through the covers. “I _did_ tell you.”

“I didn’t think it would be _this_ hot,” Freddie protests. Shyly, he looks up at Jim through his lashes. “You really did come straight back.”

“Yes, of course I did. You asked me to,” Jim says, honestly.

Freddie looks away, hands clenching tight around his cup. “You’re very kind,” he says, then deliberately turns into Jim, pressing a kiss to his shoulder.

Jim wants to ask what in the holy hell that was all about earlier—and if this counts as an apology—but doesn’t quite dare. Maybe later, maybe when they’ve spent more time together (if they spend more time together), but not now. He does wrap an arm around Freddie, squeezing his bare hip gently, and Freddie sighs, going limp against his side.

So they drink morning tea together, Jim’s arm around Freddie, and they talk of peaceful, inconsequential things: Jim’s favorite tea, Freddie’s cats, Jim’s landlady. Freddie has a lot to say about his cats, telling a story about the destruction of one of his favorite rugs with great verve and animation, but he is also fully capable of sitting quietly while Jim talks, dark, thoughtful eyes fixed on Jim’s face. His long fingers trace the pattern on the china teacup in his lap absently as he listens. He’s unspeakably lovely, and Jim is certainly already at least half in love with him.

“Phoebe told me you’re going to the studio today,” he says finally, and Freddie sighs, explosively.

“Oh, yes,” he says, rolling his eyes. “And I’ll be late, I expect—but there are some fucking _dreadful_ people there, darling. I can’t be bothered to deal with them.”

Jim raises his eyebrows. “Not the rest of the people in your band, surely?”

“It’s not my band,” Freddie corrects, the words rolling off his tongue as though by rote. Jim vaguely recalls him saying something similar last night, during the party. “But no, not them—I mean, they drive me up the fucking wall, but I’m used to them, and I wouldn’t exactly call them _dreadful_.” He smiles, quickly, before the expression fades. “There’s another band recording in the same studio and they’re just—awful. Well, not all of them, I suppose, but—anyway, I don’t want to fucking deal with it.” Frowning, he turns the teacup around and around in his lap.

“Have they said something to you?”

Freddie sighs. “Oh, it’s nothing, dear,” he says, flapping a hand dismissively. He won’t meet Jim’s eyes. “I’m just being dramatic. You know me.”

“If they _have_ said something,” Jim persists, frowning himself now, “you should just tell them to fuck off.”

At once, Freddie looks up at him, eyes wide and startled. “What?” he asks. “I mean—I can’t, darling, that would be—horribly rude.”

“I suppose,” Jim allows. “But, Freddie—surely you can get away with it? Just this once? You’ve toured _America!_ ” He gestures expansively, trying to fit the entire concept of America into Freddie’s bedroom. “You must be big enough to tell these assholes where to shove it.”

Freddie just blinks at him. He’s clearly still startled, and Jim can’t tell if it’s a good startled or bad startled.

Jim himself has that same, sudden impulse to tell him that he’ll protect him, he’ll make Freddie feel better, but again he manages to restrain himself. He lets himself rub his thumb along Freddie’s bony hip, anchoring himself in the sensation of skin-on-skin—innocent, in this case, soft and comforting.

“Well, you don’t have to,” Jim says, relenting. “But I do think you could, if you wanted to.” He puts a smile on. “Now, when do you have to be there?”

Freddie stares at him for a moment longer before glancing at the clock. “Oh, another hour or so,” he says, making a face. “Phoebe will be on me to leave soon.” He drops his cheek to Jim’s shoulder. “I don’t _want_ to leave you so soon,” he whines. “There’s so much more I want to do with you, darling.”

Jim hesitates, then says, cautiously: “You have my number, you know. We could always meet up again sometime.”

“Yeah?” Freddie turns his face up to Jim’s, then pushes aside his empty teacup and slides into Jim’s lap, knees tight against his hips. It’s exactly like how they were last night, except for the fact that Jim has clothes on right now, and _Christ_ Freddie is still naked.

Jim swallows, hard. It’s one thing to know that the sheets covered up nothing at all, but it’s something else entirely to see Freddie’s slender body in _all_ its glory, not hidden by clothes or covers or semi-darkness. He’s gorgeous and Jim is attracted to him like a heart attack. He has to touch, setting his palms on that tiny waist, steadying him as he balances on sore, wobbling legs.

“Do you think so?” Freddie trails his lips along Jim’s jaw. Breathes against his throat before gently sinking his teeth into his pulse.

“Freddie,” Jim says unsteadily. There are finger-shaped bruises under his hands, splayed nearly the width of Freddie’s narrow hips. He supposes he could have made them the night before, though he doesn’t remember gripping Freddie like this, only hugging him close. He _knows_ , really—he can’t expect anything else, _get it together, Hutton_ —and closes his eyes, breathes in the scent of Freddie’s hair to distract himself.

“Will you meet me again, if I ask?” He’s smiling, seductive, Jim can hear it all in his voice, but there’s also, just possibly, the tiniest note of vulnerability, like he thinks that Jim might actually say no. Would ever say no in a thousand years.

“ _Freddie,_ ” Jim says, and hugs him. Freddie lets out a small, surprised sound by his ear, hands tentatively hooking around his shoulders. “Of course I would. Anytime you like.”

“Oh,” Freddie says, and then, “Well, I’ll hold you to that, darling.” He kisses Jim’s throat, his cheek, and finally his mouth. His lips keep tugging up into a small smile, like he can’t help himself, like he’s pleased as anything that _Jim_ wants to spend more time with him.

And Jim gives in and lets himself pretend, just for a moment, that they’ll still be like this in the future. In another few years, maybe, just kissing in the morning before heading off to work—just the two of them, as a couple.

-

Sometimes, Freddie hates recording.

Actually, that’s not true. _Most_ of the time, he hates recording. There are exceptions, and he does love the process of creating, but actually _recording_ songs makes him feel like fucking death warmed over.

So today isn’t much of an exception, really.

They’re trying to thrash out a backing track for “Get Down, Make Love”, and it’s been nothing but an endless parade of mistakes. Most of them, it has to be said, are from Freddie, who’s horribly distracted by thoughts of Jim’s arms around him, Jim _in_ him, the ache he can still feel as he sits on the piano stool. The warm glow isn’t even entirely ruined by the _glances_ Paul has been occasionally throwing at him since he got here.

Roger is rapidly starting to lose patience.

“Fucking _Christ,_ Freddie, get it together!” he explodes, crashing one of his cymbals loudly as Freddie fucks up yet another progression. “You are fucking _useless_ today, fucking _hell_ —”

“ _You’re_ the one who couldn’t keep time earlier!” Freddie retorts, his own voice rising. “You and John couldn’t agree on a fucking _beat_ , darling, don’t go pointing fingers at _me_ —”

“Who’s wasted _hours_ of our time, then, Fred! John and I worked that out _ages_ ago—”

“If you keep shouting, you’re just wasting more time, dear! Or hadn’t that occurred to you?”

Mike Stone’s voice crackles in through the speakers: “Ah, guys?”

“Oh, _fuck_ you, Fred,” Roger says angrily. “The lyrics distracting you, huh, is that it? Get your _head_ back in the fucking studio, where it belongs!”

Freddie slams his hands down on the piano keys, his ears ringing. Out of the corner of his eye, he can see John with his arms draped over his bass, eyebrows raised, and that’s the final straw, the thing that finally catapults him to his feet. “Well, _fuck you_ , then, Roger!” he spits, turning to storm out into the control room. “Not _literally,_ of course! God _fucking_ forbid!”

“ _Go,_ then!” Roger roars as he slams out the door. “Go find _fucking_ Prenter!”

Freddie _doesn’t_ want Paul, as it happens—he doesn’t much want anyone, he’s so angry that he knows he’ll just maul anyone he comes across bloody—so he crashes to the loo instead, locking himself inside a stall to fume.

(God, _fuck_ Roger, the _nerve_ to shout at me like that—)

(He’s right, though, isn’t he? It isn’t fair to hold them all back, they could have gotten so much more done today if you could get it together for five minutes.)

(Well—he didn’t mean it like _that_.)

(Didn’t he?)

(No—no, it’s _Roger_. He wouldn’t.)

(If you say so…)

Freddie wraps his arms around himself, biting his lower lip hard. _God_ , he hates recording. He wants to be back on the road again, drunk somewhere, Roger’s arm around his shoulders, these arguments long forgotten.

The bathroom door creaks open. “Freddie?”

Freddie winces and quickly wipes his face. “What is it, Paul?”

Paul approaches his stall and stops on the other side. Freddie can see his feet below the door. “Are you all right in there, Freddie?”

“I’m fine.”

“Can I come in, please?”

Freddie hesitates, but he’s weak, he’s upset and he just wants someone to hug him. Phoebe isn’t here, and of course Jim isn’t here—Jim has better things to do, a real life that doesn’t involve Freddie in any way. So he unlocks the stall door and Paul steps inside.

Paul’s soft, concerned, and he pulls Freddie gently into his arms, so he must have forgotten about the thing with Jim—or put it aside, anyway, or decided that he doesn’t care about it, like he should have last night. In any case, he’s warm and solid and real, and Freddie collapses into him with a long, shuddering breath, hiding his face in Paul’s shoulder. Paul’s hand rubs up and down his back, soothingly.

“There you go, silly,” he says. “It’s not so bad, is it? Just let me hold you.”

He can do that—that’s easy. That’s the easiest thing in his life, the nicest thing. Sometimes, it’s the only thing he wants, to be held. Freddie closes his eyes and lets Paul pet him until he doesn’t want to cry quite so much and the anger inside him has backed off to a gentle simmer.

“Fucking—Roger,” Freddie says at last.

“You don’t have to put up with that,” Paul says, combing his fingers through Freddie’s hair. “I can tell him to control himself, if you want.”

“No,” Freddie mumbles, “that’s okay. We’re just frustrated, that’s all.”

“Are you sure?”

Freddie nods. Paul smells so good, like his own particular brand of cologne and the undefinable scent of his skin.

Paul’s quiet for a moment, just stroking him, and then he says, “Roger put it badly, but he _does_ have a point, Fred. You need to focus in the studio.”

“Oh.” Freddie wilts, shrinks in Paul’s arms. He can feel himself getting smaller. He _hates_ himself, especially when his tongue trips over itself as he replies. “I—I—I know.”

(Some vocalist _you_ are. You can’t even speak without stuttering!)

“It’s that new man, isn’t it?” Paul goes on, but he’s gentle about it this time. “Jim, right?”

“I—I suppose.”

“You have to be careful, Freddie. What will the others think if you can’t perform properly anymore?”

Freddie bites his lip, fighting back a new surge of tears. “I _know_.”

“Okay,” Paul says soothingly. He kisses the side of Freddie’s head. “As long as you know, I’m sure you can figure it out. I’m just worried about you, Freddie, that’s all. You know that too, right? That I care about you?”

Freddie just nods. His throat is too tight to speak.

“Good.” Paul pulls him off his shoulder, squeezing his shoulders bracingly. “Come on, let’s get you back in there, yeah?” He smiles at Freddie, kisses him briefly. “Silly thing! Put on a smile for me, come on.”

He tries his best, and the smile is wobbly at first, but the longer it’s on Freddie’s face the stronger and more natural it gets. Paul always knows how to get Freddie back on his feet—he’s always been so kind, so caring, knowing just the right thing to say.

“Are they all waiting for me?” he asks, wiping the last tears from his face. He hopes his eyes aren’t too red.

(If they are, it’s not like the others aren’t used to you crying all the time, you stupid little boy. They won’t be surprised.)

“Of course they are!” Paul leans in close. “You’re Freddie _fucking_ Mercury. They can’t go on without you. You don’t want to let them down, do you?”

Freddie just wants to go home, really, but Paul is right, as always—the others need him, the _band_ needs him. He can’t let them down, can’t disappoint them. He couldn’t live with himself if he did that on purpose. “All right,” he says, nodding. “Okay, darling—lead the way! I suppose my public awaits, don’t they?”

“There we are,” Paul says, smiling. “There’s the Freddie Mercury I know.” He kisses Freddie again, more deeply this time, then leads him out of the bathroom entirely.

Back in the control room, Roger and Deacy have abandoned their instruments and are sat at the control panel, bickering about volume levels. Freddie is slightly mollified to see that all three of them are in a bit of a mood today, and that Brian, newly returned from the little lunch room to hover over Roger’s shoulder, looks like he has some strong opinions too, just like he always does. Maybe the screaming _isn’t_ just him, even if he’s the one who made most of the mistakes.

Brian catches sight of them first, since he’s standing, and his face changes slightly when his eyes land on Paul. “Oh, hello,” he says, almost coldly; then, to Freddie: “What d’you think of bringing up the guitar part here, over the piano line? I think—”

“ _What?!_ ” Freddie shrieks, all of Roger’s sins forgotten in the face of this new outrage. “Absolutely _not_ , darling, you’ll ruin the entire mood of the song, I can’t _believe_ —”

The argument goes on for at least an hour, during which Roger earns Freddie’s forgiveness by ably coming to his defense, and their own squabble is immediately lost and gone to the dusty annals of history. Deacy’s eyebrows, on the other hand, suggest that he agrees with Brian, though he speaks up only rarely.

Still, despite all of Brian’s shouting, it is, in the end, Freddie’s song, and it’s Freddie who ultimately achieves victory. Flush with success, Freddie drops into the chair next to Roger, and they share a conspiratorial grin while Brian, still grumbling, retreats to the couch at the back of the little room, long arms crossed moodily.

“Oh, get over it, Bri,” Freddie calls cheerfully, his good humor thoroughly restored. “We haven’t even recorded the space-funk guitar solo yet! You’ll love that bit.”

Brian’s grumbling does not actually let up, but he _has_ just lost an argument. He won’t recover for a while yet. Several people in the control room, at least, are amused by this inevitable emotional journey, judging by their faces—Andy Turner, Roger (of course), and Freddie and John’s shared roadie, Ratty, among them.

And that’s when the door bangs open and the monstrosity stumbles in—absurdly spiked, greasy hair, leather jacket, reeking of alcohol, the works. Brian, who’s closest, actually recoils, leaning over onto the other couch cushion like he can escape this— _thing_. Everyone else, farther away, just falls quiet, staring at this alien being that’s come streaking into their orbit.

Sid Vicious looks around, swaying drunkenly. He’s a horrid oaf—they’ve never really spoken, but they’ve passed in the halls and _everyone_ can tell that, it’s fucking _obvious_ —and Freddie’s stomach clenches when his mean little eyes fix on _him_.

“You there,” he slurs, pointing at Freddie like it’s not completely bloody _obvious_ who he’s talking to. “The poof. Freddie Platinum or something, yeah? You brought ballet to the masses yet, mate?”

Roger’s already starting to swell indignantly by Freddie’s elbow, but he’s remembered, like a bolt out of the blue—

_You must be big enough to tell these assholes where to shove it._

“Oh, Stanley Ferocious, isn’t it?” he purrs, heart racing, skin thrumming. “Well, we’re doing our best, darling!” He hops to his feet and prowls over, thrilled when the horrid boy shrinks back, eyes widening like he’s starting to second-guess his decision to come in here in the first place, and grabs a handful of his jacket. “Now, _do_ leave the grown-ups to do their work, would you, dear?” He pushes him out of the room, pats him lightly, condescendingly, on the shoulder, and shuts the door in his face.

He turns around, dusting off his hands—even the boy’s _jacket_ had been greasy—and finds the rest of the room staring at him, various expressions of delight on their faces.

“Fucking _hell,_ Fred!” Ratty bursts out, and he looks so _admiring_ that Freddie actually feels taller, for a second, feels more—more _masculine_ , somehow, like he’s been admitted to the boy’s club without even realizing he’d been trying for membership.

“What a _prick,_ ” Brian says, moving permanently to the other side of the couch, as though he thinks maybe the half closest to the door is now contaminated. This is entirely sensible—it might very well be. “God, I hope he doesn’t come back—you’d better be here next time, too, Freddie.”

Freddie waves a hand dismissively, not-so-secretly pleased. “Oh, it was nothing, darling,” he says. “I’m sure any of you would have done the same. What a _horrid_ boy, I’ll never understand why people find that sort of noise so appealing.” He drifts back over to sit beside Roger, who’s looking at him in a considering sort of way, though he can’t figure out why. Quickly, he claps his hands together, distracting both of them. “Well! Shall we give this backing track another try?”

So they do, and Freddie keeps Paul’s advice in mind—and Jim _out_ of mind, as much as possible, that is. He’ll call him later—in a couple of days, maybe—and maybe tell him about what happened with this Vicious character, and ask him to come over again. _Then_ he can think about Jim some more.

For now, he has his work. It’s all he really needs, after all, and it’s the only thing that will never betray him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fun Fact: In my version of Peter Freestone's book, at least, he says that the benefit at the ballet was in 1977, and Freddie/Paul then picked him up shortly afterwards to do wardrobe for the Crazy Tour, which was in 1979. These dates don't make any sense, so I assume the 1977 one is a typo of some sort, but by the time this actually processed in my brain it was far too late for this story. Phoebe was already well-entrenched. *sighs* So, in this world, one of the many small shifts is that the benefit took place in early 1977, because I Say So.
> 
> Anyway, you have all be completely fabulous readers and I am forever indebted to you for all of your kind kudos and comments! Feel free to look me up on Tumblr as well if you want to scream about Freddie or Jimercury or Queen in general, I'm forever up for that.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Freddie attempts to wash dishes, uses the telephone, and speaks honestly for about 0.5 seconds.

“And have you been eating enough?”

“Yes, Mama.”

“Oh, I don’t think you’ve been eating enough. You’ve always had such a small appetite. Here, have some more, for your mother.”

“Yes, Mama.”

“Freddie, I don’t think Roger has tried it yet—could you—?”

“Of course, darling—Mama’s outdone herself, really, I couldn’t possibly hoard it all to myself.”

“Oh, Kash, it’s okay, I can—”

“No, let me—you have to ladle it over the rice like _this_ —”

“And how is dear Mary these days?” Mama asks, while Kash’s boyfriend gives in and lets her arrange his plate to her satisfaction. Papa, eyes cool and sharp, listens closely from his seat at the head of the table.

“She’s well, Mama,” Freddie says lightly. He picks at the baked yams on his plate, moving them around each other like they’re dancing. “She sends her regards.”

“It’s been so _long_ since we’ve seen her,” Mama frets. “Do tell her that we miss her, won’t you?”

“Yes, Mama.”

“And that she’s welcome here any time?”

“Yes, Mama.”

“Well,” Mama says, and he can _see_ that she wants to say more—that there _will_ be more later, when Kash’s boyfriend is distracted and not _right there_.

Freddie is absurdly, pathetically grateful for Roger Cooke’s presence.

“I’ll bring her by next time,” he says, and it’s the only thing he can do to make up for everything that he is. She’s the only thing of his that they want. They don’t understand the music, not really—never have. Paul’s out in the car with Terry, and the rest of his friends are at clubs fucking or getting fucked by other men. And Jim’s—well, Jim’s not a factor, even if they _have_ seen each other twice more since the night of the party, and Jim fucked him and held him just as sweetly as before. In any case, he’ll never come here, Freddie can’t allow it; the very thought of _Jim_ and _his parents_ in the same proximity sets his heart racing in his throat. “She does miss you all terribly, I’m sure she’ll be able to find the time.”

His parents exchange glances, and Freddie wonders, again, with a sort of dull horror, if they can actually read his mind—if they can see him with Jim, in bed, two men lying together, but worst of all their _son_ naked in another man’s arms, Jim’s semen drying on his thighs and his mind blissed out to white nothing.

He pastes on a smile and says quickly, “What will you make for Mary, Mama? I want to tell her before she comes. You know how much she loves your food.”

This seems to satisfy his mother, at least for the time being, and she ruminates out loud about several recipes, happily, no doubt, envisioning her cooking bringing Freddie and Mary back together. His father’s eyes, fixed on Freddie, are far colder and less certain in this daydream, and Freddie, picking at his food, can’t bear to meet his gaze. He’s aware it just makes him look guiltier—makes him look, in short, like the moral degenerate that he is—but he can’t _help_ it. His father’s disapprobation has always cut him to the quick, hurt all the worse because he hopelessly seeks ways to avoid it, to find some measure of acceptance that constantly eludes him.

Kash—wonderful Kash, he feels at moments like these that he has never appreciated her like he should—picks up the mantle of conversation when Mama falters, and talks about her studies, her friends, the latest places Roger Cooke has taken her. Only her boyfriend meets with any disapproval, and then only of the most minor sort, for not being Parsee in any sense of the word; otherwise, Mama and Papa acknowledge him to be a very good sort of boy, and Freddie suspects that they are well on their way to being married.

Mama and Papa once believed the same of him and Mary, with a sort of unrestrained joy that he now recognizes came partly from disbelief. Even then, they had not entirely trusted that he would go through with it, that his… _inclinations_ would not betray him.

They were right, of course, though he’s sure they’d all rather have been wrong about him, and he’s very far from marriage now.

Freddie escapes the table as quickly as he can under the excuse of washing up—though he hates washing dishes, the water dries out his hands something awful—and he’s frowning down at a particularly stubborn pan when his mother enters the small kitchen, more plates in her arms.

“Oh, _priya_ , you’ve never known how to wash dishes,” she says fondly. “Here, let me show you. How you take care of yourself I can’t imagine. Here, here, watch.”

Freddie backs off, heart hammering with trepidation, and dries his hands with a dish towel while she scrubs at the offending pan. It really doesn’t seem so hard when _she_ does it, but she’s always been quietly efficient—like Phoebe. Or maybe Phoebe is like her.

He’s torn from his thoughts when she says, “When are you going to bring a new girl to meet us?” Her eyes cut sideways, slicing him to the quick.

“Mama, you know I don’t have time to meet nice girls,” he says, tugging the dish towel between his hands, twisting it. When he realizes what he’s doing he forces himself to stop. “We’re going on tour again in a few weeks, no girl worth taking home wants to put up with that.”

“Your band friends are married,” Mama points out, quite sensibly. “You told me. _They_ met good girls who are willing to put up with your crazy schedule. Hand me those plates, would you, dear?”

Freddie gives her the plates. He feels sick, his legs watery and insubstantial. “I’ve never been good at meeting nice people, Mama.”

She frowns. Oh, here it comes. He can’t escape; there’s nowhere to run. She lowers her voice, tactfully concealing her words behind the running water, and says, “You _have_ been looking for a nice girl, haven’t you, Freddie?”

He manages a smile. It feels stretched, too thin, ghastly. “Of course, Mama. What else would I be doing?”

“I don’t understand why you let Mary go. She’s perfect for you, you know. I have a feeling she would take you back, if you asked.”

“Mama, it’s not fair to her. She wants to live her own life.”

Mama tuts. “If she loves you as much as I think she does, she’ll arrange her life around yours with no complaint.”

She’s right, of course—she’s right about him so often, and she knows Mary so well, somehow. He fights back the urge to vomit. “I—I can’t ask that of her, Mama, it’s not fair. She should be able to live her own life.”

But Mama just looks at him. She _knows_. She knows everything. “Haven’t you, Freddie? We do get the papers here, you know, and they still think you’re dating her.”

Freddie can’t respond to that. He looks away, the tea towel twisted to nothing in his hands, dinner threatening to come up into his mouth.

“Freddie,” Mama says, sharply now, “you _must_ stop this.”

“This?” Freddie repeats, and his mouth is dry.

“You know very well what I mean. Your father and I worry that—”

But whatever Mama and Papa are worried about, he doesn’t get a chance to find out. Kash chooses that moment to pop her head into the kitchen, long hair swinging past her shoulder. She wears an appropriately contrite expression on her face. “I’m sorry, Mama,” she says, “but do you know where the photo albums from Zanzibar are? Roger wants to see them and Papa can’t seem to find them.”

“Oh, your father,” Mama sighs, but she loves showing off old photos and so she leaves the dishes happily, seizing a new towel to dry her hands as she bustles away, the conversation with Freddie, for now, set aside.

Kash steps into the small room fully, though Freddie can’t look at her just then. He’s on the verge of tears, has to resist the urge to bury his face in his palms with everything he has. He wants Phoebe. He wants Paul. He wants _Jim_. And it repulses him, how at the least upset he would flee into the arms of another man, given half a chance, given the slightest opportunity—a wretched creature seeking comfort from more of its own kind.

_God_ , he’s such a fuckup.

“You’re recording a new album, right?” Kash asks, quietly, gently. She knows him too well. Everyone here knows him too well, with the exception of Kash’s own boyfriend.

Freddie nods, jerkily; forces the tears back and himself to look at her. She has carefully erased all traces of pity from her face, and she seems genuinely interested. He reminds himself that she _is_ interested, she always has been—she understands, more than Mama and Papa do.

“Yes,” he says, and clears his throat. “Yes, we are. We’ll be touring it in a few weeks, really, not long at all. Quick turnaround this time.”

“Must be a relief,” she says, smiling. “You spent ages on the last one.” She edges closer to him and lays a small hand on his forearm. “We’ll miss you while you’re gone.”

“I’ll miss you too,” he says. He does mean it, even after nights like this.

“Let me know if you’re giving any concerts in London, all right?” She squeezes his arm. “I’ll bring Roger.”

“Trying to impress him?” Freddie asks. There’s a smile on his own face—the ghost of a real one. His stomach is settling.

“Oh, always,” she says, snorting, and it’s so like his baby sister that it makes him laugh.

“He’d be a fool not to be.”

“Oh, I think I have him snared,” Kash says smugly.

Freddie wants to sit her down and brush her hair and just _talk_ , like when they were little, before he was sent away. He wants to tell her not to let this boy get the better of her—to keep her confidence, her agency. He doesn’t want her making the same mistakes he does every day. She’s his baby sister, and someday she’ll be someone’s wife—maybe this Roger Cooke’s wife—and the thought brings a lump to his throat.

All he can say is, “He is treating you well, isn’t he?”

“Of course he is. Do you think Papa would let him do otherwise?” Kash runs her fingers through the ends of her hair, working out the tangles, and he can tell by the tilt of her head that she’s teasing, at least a little bit, but that Roger Cooke would also—has also—never done anything to hurt her. He _does_ seem like a good boy, Freddie has to say, mellow in a way that his own Roger only sometimes is.

“Don’t _let_ him do otherwise,” he finds himself saying. “And don’t forgive him if he does. Understand, Kash? That type—they never change.”

It’s the closest they’ve come to discussing anything, and Kash’s eyes are warm and grateful at his trust. “I won’t,” she says. “I promise, Freddie.” She links their arms together and changes the subject, because she must be able to tell that he wants to, that he’s said as much as he can bear. That being so open, even for a second, terrifies him. “Shall we go be embarrassed by Mama’s pictures? I didn’t want to face them alone.”

“All right,” he concedes, squeezing her arm gently. “But if Papa starts going on about my boxing career again, I’m _leaving_.”

Giggling, Kash tugs him out of the kitchen and towards the living room.

“Mary, darling!” Freddie gushes the moment the line is picked up.

She laughs, musical and light, and he’s reminded of why he loves her so much. “Hello, Freddie.”

“Do you have some time to talk, dear? Only I wouldn’t want to intrude.”

“Oh, no, you’re fine,” she says, though she does sound a bit distracted. He can hear her murmuring to someone else in the background, and then her voice resolves again. “How are you doing? You had dinner with your family last night, didn’t you?”

“ _I_ didn’t so much have dinner with my family as _we_ did, and they would not stop asking why you weren’t there,” Freddie says dramatically. He’s lying on his couch, the phone cord stretched from the small side table, and he rolls until he can dangle his head and one arm off of the back of the couch, in a way that he feels suitably represents how he’s feeling to everyone present. So… Phoebe. Well, good enough.

“Oh, do they miss me?”

“ _Miss_ you? Darling, I honestly think they would do anything to get you back to their house for dinner, and I mean _anything_. Would you be willing to come with me next week so they don’t start becoming desperate?”

“How could I possibly refuse such a request?” Mary asks, and he can hear the smile in her voice, so he doesn’t take it too personally.

“Really, Mary, Mama is going to make your very favorite dish—”

Mary gasps, suddenly completely invested. “Oh, do you mean the one with the soft, flat bread—what’s it called?”

“Naan,” Freddie supplies. “And yes, that one. She is quite depending on you coming over, darling, she’s missed you so much you can’t even _imagine_.”

Mary hums. “Well, I suppose I could imagine. Anyway, yes, Freddie, of course I’ll come—just let me know the day and time and we can go together. Will that make them happy?”

“They’ll be happy enough to see you, dear, but—” And here he hesitates, for a moment, struggling with the right path forward. “We must make it clear to my parents, at least, that you are happy living as you are, and I have very little to do with it.”

“Very little to do with my life?” Mary repeats. He _thinks_ she’s laughing. He doesn’t know entirely what at, though; Mary after their breakup can be volatile at the strangest moments, and Freddie never quite knows how to help her. He’s afraid that she’s still in love with him, just as he is with her, and that can’t be—two people who are still in love with each other can’t very well be friends, or put friendship first. That’s all he really wants from Mary, after their relationship fell apart—a friend, a good friend, a best friend, even. He _wants_ to tell her everything but somehow doesn’t quite dare, not anymore. “Well, all right, Freddie, if that’s what we should tell them, then I’ll make sure to say the same thing.”

“Thank you,” Freddie says in a rush. “Darling, I’m so sorry to put you through all of this again—”

“This was _my choice_ , Freddie,” Mary says firmly. “I could have walked away at any time and I chose to stay so I could help you out with things like this. I agreed to it.”

“But—it really is cruel of me, keeping you like this when you could go out and live your own life—”

“I’m helping with _your_ life right now, Freddie,” she says, short and clipped. “There’s no use looking back, is there?”

“I suppose not,” he answers, subdued. No, he’s made his choice, and he doesn’t see how he could have made a different one, not at any stage in this process that is by turns horribly awkward and simple and smooth. There’s an air of inevitability to it all. He was always going to destroy his relationship with Mary looking for something that he can’t have, and David was always going to show him that he’s not built for love, that there’s something missing inside him even besides the bits that are wrong. He’s almost grateful, now, that Mary might have another chance—a chance with someone who will treat her right, and _not_ turn out to be a closeted homosexual. Surely, at this point, the odds are in her favor.

Tactfully, Mary changes the subject. “And how are Tom and Jerry?” she asks, voice lilting the way it does when she talks about the cats. “What have they been up to lately? Tom’s always up to something.”

And Freddie can fall easily into this new conversation—an eternal favorite of his—and tell her about Tom’s latest scheme to persuade Phoebe to let him snuggle up to him at night, when it’s his day to stay over. Tom is endlessly fascinated by Phoebe—something to do with his height, Freddie thinks, and contrasting soft, gentle manner—and would sit on him anytime, if he could. The only obstacle to their love, as he tells Mary, is that Phoebe is always running about doing something, and Tom is inevitably jolted off.

“Don’t lie to me, Freddie,” Mary says as she’s laughing, “you’re the one sending Phoebe to fetch something when you see Tom sitting there!”

“He’s _my_ baby!” Freddie retorts, but Mary does seem genuinely amused now, less upset than she had been five minutes before.

“Well, tell your _baby_ that I expect I’ll be seeing him soon, won’t you? I’m sure he misses me.”

“They both miss you terribly, Mary. I wish you would come over more often.”

“You’re very busy, Freddie,” Mary says, and he can’t quite read her tone. “I don’t want to intrude. I _will_ , though,” she adds with sudden cheer, “if it’s to see my little darlings. Give them kisses from me, won’t you?”

“Of course!” Freddie hunts around his feet and comes up with a grumbling Jerry. He bestows a kiss on his small head. “That’s from Mary,” he tells him, and he can hear her musical laugh over the phone.

His stomach clenches. They should be talking like this in the same room, just discussing their lives the way they used to. They should be able to sit next to each other on this couch and hold hands, listen to each other, fulfill each other the way soulmates are supposed to. It’s _his_ fucking fault they can’t be the way they were, _his_ perversions that drove her away from him to this distance over the phone line, to all the times when he complains and she just listens. He’s the problem; he’s the rot; he always has been, always will be. David was right about him, all those months ago. He kills all the love he touches.

He doesn’t understand why, after he hangs up with Mary, his thoughts linger on Jim. Jim, who he’s seeing again tonight, at Heaven, and probably here, at his flat, once they’ve got tired of the club scene. And then Jim will leave him again, go home to his regular life, and Freddie will be left with nothing but a telephone to connect him to the people he lo—

No. _Cares about_ , certainly. Anything else is a bit strong.

And in any case, he’s used to this. When they’re touring, he only ever speaks to Mary on the phone, and the cats, and his parents. _He’s_ the one who leaves _them_ , in the end—or very shortly, as is the case this time, their album going to pressing and the four of them on tour in the blink of an eye. He’ll be gone soon, and then Jim will forget about him.

The thought twists horribly in Freddie’s stomach, and he reaches for the phone again.

“Paul? Darling, can you bring something to Heaven for me?”

Long after the sun has set, Freddie pulls Jim down on top of him, crushing their mouths together.

He’s buzzing, hyper-aware of everywhere he and Jim touch, of Jim’s skin against his own, their legs tangled together, Jim’s cock grinding into his hip, his own trapped between their bellies, and it’s all _skin_ and _muscles_ and _hair_ and _hardness_. The tiniest cells in his body are firing on all cylinders, lighting him up like a fucking supernova. He’ll come if Jim so much as touches him with a finger.

“Please, please, please,” he gasps, words tumbling out of his mouth faster than he can think of them. “Oh fuck, Jim, _fuck_ , please, darling, you have to fuck me, come _on, Jim_ —”

Jim shushes him, kisses him with tongue, and that’s the only reason—the _only_ reason—more words don’t come bubbling up from Freddie’s throat.

He’s lit _the fuck up_. He digs his nails into Jim’s shoulders, hard.

At once, Jim stops kissing him. “Freddie,” he says, warningly.

“ _What?_ ” Freddie seizes his hair in both hands, works to pull him down, but as always Jim is stronger, he’s not going to go anywhere he doesn’t want to. “Why won’t you just _kiss_ me?” he whines, frustration boiling over.

“Your heart is racing,” Jim says. With some effort, he manages to collect both of Freddie’s wrists in one hand, pinning them above his head. “Calm down, Freddie, _breathe_.”

“I don’t—”

“Just breathe, Freddie. Please? For me?” Those kind eyes are so soft, so concerned. They ease the lightning in his skin.

“Fine,” Freddie grumbles, and breathes. To his delight, after a few goes of this, Jim kisses his throat, running his tongue down to his collarbone, and Freddie moans, arching into him, knotting his legs around his waist. “Oh, _please_ , Jim—”

“Breathe, Freddie,” Jim reminds him. He sucks a mark on his shoulder. “Keep going, now, come on.”

Freddie grumbles, but he breathes, and Jim presses his mouth to him so softly, and eventually the buzz isn’t so bad, the light in his head has backed off a bit, he’s able to lay there without squirming the sheets into a tangle around him. He tips his head back, staring mindlessly at the ceiling, and lets Jim rock against him, touch him so gently with his free hand. His own wrists are still caught above his head.

“ _There_ you go,” Jim murmurs, deep voice rumbling between them, and Freddie groans, tossing his head. “Shhh, no, you’re okay.” He kisses him, a real one, on the mouth, and Freddie calms again almost without realizing it.

It’s easier to just lay here and let Jim take care of him. He seems to want to, and it’s—nice. It’s very nice, it’s really just what Freddie wants, or at least what he usually wants when he hasn’t recently snorted a line of cocaine.

“ _Jim,_ ” he groans, tugging at his trapped wrists, “ _please_ just fuck me, darling, I’m begging you!”

Jim sighs, but he doesn’t seem put out. In any case, he nips at Freddie’s jawline, following it to his throat. “Is that what you want?”

“Why would I want anything else?” Freddie demands, aghast at the very thought. “You have an _amazing_ dick, darling, and I want you to _fuck me_ with it. I want you to fuck me until I can’t walk. Is that what you want to hear?”

“Freddie—”

“Are you _concerned_ that I can’t give fucking consent or something?” Freddie bursts out furiously. It’s only just occurred to him, the memory of how Jim had looked at him after he came bouncing back to his spot under Jim’s arm, absolutely wired from the coke Paul brought with him to Heaven—like he was concerned or something. At the time, Freddie had hardly noticed. “Because I—oh, fuck you, you _bloody_ Irish—get off me!”

“All right, all right,” Jim says, hasty but somehow still soothing, and he’s pulling himself off of Freddie when the loss of skin-to-skin contact hits, hard.

“Wait!” Freddie yelps, and he grabs Jim’s forearms with his newly-freed hands. “Wait, wait, I didn’t mean it—”

“It sounded like you _did_ ,” Jim says, scrutinizing him carefully.

Tears well in Freddie’s eyes, sudden and hot. Oh, he’s fucked up. He’s fucked everything up. He shouldn’t have _said_ that, you _don’t_ say that, not if you want them to come back some other night— “I _didn’t_. I didn’t mean it, darling, really, come back, please—”

“Freddie,” Jim says, and Freddie shuts up, trembling hard. But Jim’s hands find his, tangling their fingers together, and his voice is almost unbearably gentle when he says, “Is something wrong?”

“ _Nothing’s_ wrong,” Freddie forces out. Oh, if only that could be true—and if only he could be better at lying. He can sincerely say, though, “I mean it, darling, really, I—I do want you. Please.”

“I don’t want to hurt you,” Jim whispers. He brings Freddie’s hand up to his mouth, kisses his knuckles, and Freddie melts. Several tears slip free. He doesn’t deserve Jim—never has—but he _wants_ him, so very badly. He wants to be held like this for as long as he can manage it.

It just feels—so _real_. More real than what he had with Mary, even, which is how he knows he has to be wrong, he has to be confused somehow, but it’s so nice to pretend, every once in a while, that he might be able to have something like that again.

“You won’t hurt me, darling.” Freddie sits up, nudges their cheekbones together. He can feel Jim breathing into his hair. “I’m ready for you,” he says into his ear, “I’m always ready for you, Jim. Please, I… I need this.”

And Jim gives in, as Freddie hoped he would, and lets go of Freddie’s hands to loop his arms around his waist. “I’ll need lube,” he says quietly. “I’m not doing this with spit, Freddie, no matter how impatient you are.”

Well. He’s still Jim. Freddie has never been able to get his way completely with him, a thrilling, novel experience.

“Well, all right, dear, if you insist.” He huffs, rolling his eyes, but drops to his back willingly, spreading his legs for Jim’s slick, questing fingers. When they push inside—two at once, perhaps Jim is more impatient himself than he’s letting on—he lets out a hard breath, forcing himself to relax, arching into the touch.

Oh, the slight sting feels so _good_ , his muscles given no choice but to stretch around Jim’s blunt fingers, like when he pushes himself hard on stage and gets a delighted roar from the audience in return. It’s here, like this, a little drunk but mostly high and certainly intoxicated by Jim’s presence, that he can marvel at himself without reservations. How amazing, that he can stretch to accommodate not only Jim’s fingers but Jim’s cock. How incredible, that he can hold Jim inside him and give him pleasure, make him come, and then hold _that_ —well, sort of—and that not only can he do all of this but _feel_ it, too, pain cresting into pleasure into ecstasy. What a marvelous thing, his body.

What a traitorous, distorted thing, that it wants this and can do it, that it takes _pleasure_ in behaving as a woman’s body would and not even a fraction as much in being a man’s, in taking a man’s pleasure. No wonder he is damned, cursed to terror and loneliness for the rest of his miserable existence; such base, willful perversion _can’t_ be right, though it _feels_ so right in the moment, so right, so right, _so right_ , oh _God_ —

Freddie keens as Jim presses fingertips to his prostate, very deliberately grinding against him, and he pulls him close with trembling arms.

“Oh, _fuck,_ ” he moans, “ _yes_ , like that, darling, like that— _so good_ —”

Jim kisses him, briefly. “The faces you make,” he murmurs, rubbing harder at that spot inside him. “I could watch you all day. You’re so _hot_ , Freddie.”

Freddie whimpers, squirming, his hips jerking into Jim’s hand. He can feel himself leaking across his own belly. “Oh, _Christ_ , darling, please, just give it to me! I won’t—I won’t last long if you keep _touching_ me like that, oh, _Jiiiiimmmm_ —”

“God, listen to you,” Jim says hoarsely. He doesn’t stop pressing his fingers to Freddie’s prostate, eyes fixed on his face.

“ _Jim!_ ” Freddie shrieks. Just in time, he gets his fingers around the base of his cock, barely holding off his own orgasm. He’s _shaking_ with it, with the effort it takes to hold back.

“All right, all right, baby, I’m hurrying.” Jim kisses him swiftly on the cheek, and Freddie’s reeling as he sits up on his knees to slick up his rigid cock, brow furrowed with concentration, with something almost like pain. He pulls Freddie’s hips up into his lap and Freddie barely feels it, he’s hardly processing.

_Baby._

_All right, baby._

_Baby, baby, baby._

“Oh,” Freddie gasps, and Jim pushes into him.

He’s balls-deep in one smooth thrust, and Freddie arches into him, whining, clutching at his own hair as Jim clutches at Freddie’s ass, angling his hips just so. He’s hot and thick and throbbing inside him and Freddie can taste him on the back of his tongue.

“Oh fuck.” He realizes, after a moment, that he’s speaking again, that he can’t stop himself. “Oh fuck, oh fuck, oh _fuck, Jim!_ ”

“You’re so _tight,_ ” Jim gets out through gritted teeth. “ _Christ_ , Freddie. Can I move?”

Freddie almost sobs at the thought. “ _Please_ , darling, please!”

Jim rocks into him, slowly at first, and then with increasing speed, until his grip is bruisingly tight on Freddie’s hips to keep him still and the bed protests beneath them. Freddie cries out every time he pounds back inside, sounds punched from his throat that he doesn’t even recognize as coming from himself—he sounds lost, mindless, _overwhelmed_. He can’t _think_ with Jim fucking him so hard, giving him what he’s asked for, he’ll be so loose tomorrow, loose and bruised and well-fucked and it’s worth it, it’s _worth it_ , for the way this feels right now, for Jim’s hot, admiring gaze on him as he writhes, for his brain clearing out, all hopes and fears tossed to the wind.

Pulling him hard onto his cock, Jim grinds into him, face red, deliberately pressing the head of his cock hard into that spot inside him, and Freddie jerks, shrieks, and comes all over himself. The pleasure scorches up his body from his balls, from his well-used prostate, and for a long moment there’s nothing but the bright ecstasy. When he comes floating back into himself, his body delightfully sore, he discovers that Jim’s still hard inside him.

“Your turn, darling,” he whispers huskily, reaching down to place his own hands over Jim’s, still clamped on his hips. He undulates, pressing himself into Jim’s pelvis as best he can from this angle, and Jim tips his head back, biting his lip.

“Oh, fuck, Freddie,” he says unsteadily, his hips rocking seemingly without his permission. Within a moment, before Freddie can start doubting his charms, Jim gives in and starts fucking him in earnest, even harder than he had before. He’s so _deep_ that Freddie gasps, tossing his head back, nails scraping the back of Jim’s hands. “Oh fuck,” he repeats, “oh, Freddie, that’s it, that’s it, just—” And he comes, groaning, lurching against Freddie in pulses as he empties himself, pumps him full.

“ _Fuck,_ ” Freddie hisses, his cock stirring feebly. There’s no way he’ll get it up again so soon but he _wishes_ he could, _fucking_ hell. He touches his abdomen, feels Jim and the slosh of his semen inside, and it’s so depraved, so filthy, so _wonderful_.

Jim braces himself beside Freddie’s head, breathing hard, and they just look at each other. It’s Jim, and Freddie doesn’t feel the driving need to _say_ something, to thank his partner for taking pity on him, for—anything else. They’re quiet, and that’s all right. Maybe they don’t need words, not in times like this.

“You’re so lovely,” Jim murmurs, a small smile touching his lips, and kisses him while Freddie absorbs this. While he takes this unasked-for compliment and hides it away inside himself, where he’s placed all the other ones from Jim. He’ll never forget any of them. He’ll never forget any of _this_.

It’s only then that he remembers Jim calling him _baby_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I swear I never published smut before this and now it's just _everywhere_. Freddie, what have you done to me?!
> 
> In other, more relevant news, I could not for the life of me find out when Kash married Roger Cooke, so in this universe they are currently not married in summer 1977. I apologize for any historical inaccuracy this early in the game, before we really start screwing with the timeline.
> 
> Thank you all for continuing to be so fabulous, and I hope you enjoyed!


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jim and Freddie each get some advice. Only one of them takes it.

As always, Freddie’s soft and dazed afterwards, tucking himself into Jim’s side and hiding his face in his shoulder. He doesn’t seem to care that much about cleaning up immediately, but instead just wants to cling, to be held.

Jim’s more than happy to oblige him, fitting an arm around his back, stroking his side soothingly, all the while kicking himself silently.

_Idiot,_ idiot _, nobody wants a man who comes on so strong, not so soon, what were you_ thinking _—_

But that’s the problem. It’s always been the problem. He has trouble _thinking_ around Freddie, making the right, reasonable decisions. He wants it all, and he wants it _right now_ , and when he’s overwhelmed by Freddie’s sweet responsiveness it’s so difficult to remember why he needs to hold back. Why it’s better to remember what happened with John and take it slow, if there’s anything to _take_ at all.

He turns into Freddie, pulls him close, and Freddie lets him, limp and heavy with it, his breath warm and delicately arousing against Jim’s throat. If he hadn’t come so recently, he would be hard again, just from Freddie so trusting in his arms. He can feel him nuzzling into his jaw, his eyelashes fluttering closed, brushing his skin.

“How are you feeling?” Jim asks, stroking a palm up and down his back. He barely stops himself from adding _sweetheart_ to the question—thank God _that_ didn’t slip out. Thank God Freddie will only stop seeing him because he’s an overbearing, controlling asshole, rather than a besotted one.

Freddie hums, and sighs, and squirms closer to Jim’s side, but doesn’t actually reply. He might drop off any moment—Jim was rough on him, and though he asked for it, literally asked for it (and came untouched, his brain feels the need to point out), it was all still rougher than Jim usually prefers, and he worries, he worries that—

He couldn’t bear it if he hurt Freddie.

“Freddie? Can you just tell me if you’re all right, s—” _Shit, no._ “… So I know I didn’t hurt you?”

“You didn’t hurt me, darling,” Freddie mumbles, and he’s adorably affronted, like he’s appalled that the thought ever even occurred to Jim. He tilts his chin up, catching Jim’s eyes, and his own are hazy, almost glassy, like he’s drunk. He probably is drunk, but it doesn’t help Jim feel all that much better about his own actions. “No one can hurt me,” Freddie declares. It sounds almost as though he’s setting a rule for himself, that he’s just now thought of this, that saying it will make it true. “I’m untouchable. I’m Freddie fucking Mercury, you know.”

“And who is this Freddie fucking Mercury, exactly?” Jim forces a playful smile onto his face, forces himself to look like this hasn’t, weirdly, hurt him. Hurt him in the way Freddie wants to believe he _can’t_ be hurt—or perhaps he only meant physical pain, not that Jim feels he can ask anymore. It’s as though a wall has come up between them, an invisible wall ten inches thick even though they’re pressed so close together.

Freddie blinks, and for a moment, even in the dark, Jim thinks he looks uncertain, confused, like he’s gone for a step that isn’t there. But then, if that moment even existed, it’s gone, and he’s as confident as anyone could possibly be while off their head on drink and drugs. Christ, Jim should have just held him, not fucked him while he’s like this, not until he knows what the limits are, and Freddie can’t be trusted to know any limits right now—

“He’s on top of the fucking world, dear,” Freddie says, a cocky arrogance in his voice that Jim hasn’t heard before. He hasn’t seen this side of Freddie since the first time they met, and he’s taken aback, he doesn’t understand it—Freddie’s been so sweet, so warm, so genuine. That first night almost feels like a bad dream, or like Jim has misremembered important details, but here’s that Freddie again, and it’s so strange to see him after all this time. It stings, it _hurts_.

Now that he’s seeing this Freddie—Freddie _fucking_ Mercury—Jim realizes that he’d always hoped, always assumed, that Freddie wouldn’t need to be like this with him. That they could have something sweet and warm and genuine.

_Wake up, Hutton, he doesn’t need you._

“I can see that,” Jim says, and though he’s aiming for nonchalant, he comes off cold. He’s always been shit at pretending, at _lying_.

Freddie shoots him a look, and oh, he’s riled now. “Can you, darling?” he asks dangerously. “Can you really? Dear, you don’t even know who I _am_.”

“Does it matter?” Jim demands, unable to stop the heat rising in his chest. “Does any of it _really_ matter, Freddie?”

“Of course it matters! You don’t _understand_ what it took to get here—what I sacrificed, what I—oh, fucking _forget_ it! You don’t even care!”

“Of course I care, Freddie! Why are we even— _fuck!_ Why are we even _having_ this conversation if I don’t care?”

This, at least, stops Freddie short, though he’s still glaring, still bristling. Any moment now he’ll pull away from Jim, storm out, maybe even have him thrown out—Jim can see it so clearly.

“Just _tell_ me,” Jim says desperately, seizing Freddie’s hands and squeezing them. “You say I don’t understand, so _help_ me understand.” He tries to smile but isn’t sure that he really succeeds. “I feel like I know you, but I don’t really, do I? So help me.”

Freddie looks at him suspiciously, like he’s expecting an attack at any moment, and Jim forces himself to stay quiet and mostly calm, to prove that he means no harm. He wishes he could believe that he’d never hurt Freddie, but he can at least say that he will never hurt him on purpose.

“No,” Freddie says suddenly, and struggles to sit up, though he only works one hand free from Jim’s grip. “No, _no,_ I’m not doing this—fuck this, I’m not—let me _go_ —”

“Freddie—”

“I said let me go!”

Jim lets him go, his heart breaking, and Freddie immediately bursts into tears.

He covers his face with his hands, curling up over his knees, and sobs like he’s dying, great, heaving, childlike sobs. Jim is so shocked and horrified that he forgets about everything else and immediately sits up to put an arm around him, pulling him into his chest.

Freddie makes a weak sound of protest and struggles for half a second, very half-heartedly, before turning into Jim, curling into him as though if he tucks himself in close enough, small enough, he’ll disappear into Jim’s arms and never come back out. He’s shaking, hard. His tears and hot, damp breath collect in the small space between them.

_It’s like before, but worse—_

“Freddie,” Jim whispers, “shhh, sweetheart, it’s all right, you’re all right.” When he realizes what he’s said, he winces into Freddie’s hair and hopes he’s too distraught to have noticed. “Will it help to tell me what’s wrong? Or do you want to just sit here for a bit?”

Freddie whimpers and shakes his head, curling tighter, smaller.

“Let’s just sit here for a while,” Jim surmises. He squeezes Freddie for a moment, hard, hoping to reassure him with his presence, and kisses the top of his head. “Just breathe for me, all right? Like we practiced earlier. I promise it will help.”

_God, Jim, leave him alone, he can handle it himself._ The voice sounds suspiciously like John’s.

John probably has a point—with most men—but Freddie—

Freddie’s different. And Jim can’t just leave him alone, he _can’t_ , he would hate himself if he did, if he left someone who so obviously needs comfort and support. He’s _crying_ , for Christ’s sake. Whatever’s upset him so much, Jim just wants to make it better, _fix_ it.

And Freddie won’t let him. He wishes he would, but all he can do is hold him, help him here, in the moment. He’ll be damned if he’ll turn his nose up at this chance to help Freddie feel even the slightest bit better.

To his great relief, Freddie does seem to take his advice, doing his very best to take deep, calming breaths. They’re horrible, shuddering things, catching on sobs, but it is, Jim firmly believes as he shushes and rocks him, better than nothing.

Finally—after quite some time has passed—Freddie’s huge sobs dry up and turn into little hiccups. He’s much quieter now, and apparently calmer, pressed to Jim and breathing quietly. If Jim left him be, he might even fall asleep.

“Hey,” he murmurs, “Freddie.”

Stirring slightly, Freddie murmurs wordlessly. He is still awake, then.

“Do you want to get cleaned up before you go to sleep?”

There’s a slow, considering pause, then Freddie shakes his head.

“Right.” Jim’s relieved—he doesn’t know how he could have gone to get something warm and damp without letting Freddie go, and in this state doing that would be disastrous. Perhaps Freddie is coherent enough to have considered that himself. “Then let’s lay down, shall we? You don’t hardly have to move.”

Freddie nods, then presses a small kiss to Jim’s collarbone. His lips linger for barely a moment, but it’s enough to warm Jim’s entire body.

_Oh, love,_ he thinks but doesn’t say. _What a sweet, sweet man you are._

Freddie falls asleep the instant Jim lays him down, curled tightly into his chest, but Jim lays awake for some time afterward, thinking.

The salon is boring, his flat is empty, and Freddie doesn’t call for over three weeks.

It’s only to be expected, really—Jim probably pushed him too far the last time they were together, he wouldn’t blame Freddie at all if he decided to never contact Jim again—but he worries, and he misses him. He feels like his life has already started to adjust to Freddie, and now that he’s missing there’s a hole in the shape of him and all he can do is poke at it, feeling around the edges of this emptiness.

He felt something like this when John left, but… only a little.

Like he’s suspected for a while, Freddie’s different. He’s always been different, both in himself and to Jim. As difficult and moody as he can be, he’s still sweet and lovely, and when the fights are over Jim finds that he doesn’t mind them too much, because they’ve always made up again. And he’s always been under the impression, somehow, that he could avoid most of them anyway, once he learns more about Freddie. Once he really knows him.

Now, it seems, he won’t get that opportunity.

He trudges to his local one night into the fourth week, head down, and nurses a pint in the corner. He has to, he realizes, figure out a way to get over Freddie, before he’s trapped longing for someone who doesn’t want to see him again, who never _will_ see him again. He has to recapture the distance he lost almost immediately, way back at the beginning of their relationship.

He has to move on, and the thought is so devastating that he almost doesn’t hear when someone calls his name.

“Jim! _Jim!_ ”

He looks up, and it’s John, squeezing between other people to get to him, a big smile on his familiar face.

“John?” Jim says, surprise momentarily driving Freddie entirely from his mind.

“I haven’t seen you in _ages!_ ” John says, and he’s still grinning, still looking at Jim like a long-lost friend. “Oh—d’you mind if I sit?”

“No, no, go ahead.”

“Great.” John slides into the opposite booth, setting down his own half-finished drink. “How have you been? God, it’s been—how long _has_ it been?”

Jim’s surprised to find that he doesn’t actually know. He stopped counting the time, even recreationally, when Freddie burst into his life and turned it upside-down. “Oh, I don’t know—months, must be.”

“Well, how are you? How’s the job?” John takes a drink, eyes still fixed on Jim. “You still work at the Savoy?”

“Yeah, I’m still at the same place. Same old grind, you know me.”

“Is this okay?” John asks suddenly, setting his lager down. “Are you okay with us—you know, being friends?”

Jim looks at John, at his earnest face, and remembers the days when they _were_ friends, before they became more. They were good friends; it was why it had been so easy to slide into _something more_ , though now Jim realizes that perhaps they shouldn’t have. Maybe they’ve always been better as friends. “I’m fine with it,” he says, and means it. “Really, you just took me by surprise. What have you been doing?”

And John talks about his job, about his great coworkers and annoying boss, and Jim slowly relaxes back into this—into being _friends_ , just sitting down and having a pint and talking about their day. It’s actually, he realizes, exactly what he needed right now.

“Now, I’ve been dying to know,” John says, leaning forward eagerly, “are you seeing anyone new? I was—I felt bad, you know.” He looks down at the table. “Leaving like I did. So I hope you’ve found someone who treats you better.”

Jim blinks at him, shocked. “John, I—we weren’t suited to each other, like that. I wasn’t… _offended_ , or anything.”

“You _were_.”

“Well, maybe at first,” Jim amends. “But I realized that you were right about me, so I’ve been trying to change.”

John’s mouth goes thin. “Oh, don’t tell me you _listened_ to me,” he says, despairing.

“What?”

“We were _breaking up_ , Jim! Of course I said horrible things, that doesn’t mean you should—take them as gospel, or something!”

Jim frowns. “But you were right, I _was_ too clingy—”

“ _For me_ , Jim!” John waves his arms, almost knocking his empty glass over. “Don’t tell me—oh, God, you’ve always been so well-meaning. Come on, Jim, what doesn’t work for me will work for someone else, all right? Don’t change yourself just because _we_ didn’t work out.” He leans over the table and grabs Jim’s hand. “ _Please_ don’t. You’re lovely the way you are, you know.”

For a moment, Jim wants to tense and pull away; in the nick of time, he remembers that they’re in a gay pub and people can see two men holding hands without a fight breaking out. Or hear them talking about breaking up, for that matter.

“You seemed awfully sure,” Jim mumbles, “I’ve just been trying to—”

“Well, _stop_ trying.” John cuts him off with a firm pat to his hand. “Just be you and I’m sure some lucky guy will snap you right up. It’s nearly happened before, remember? You’ve had to beat the rich and famous off with a stick!” John laughs, and Jim joins in, though his heart is breaking.

“Like that will ever happen again,” Jim says, sighing, thinking of the telephone sitting silent at his flat.

“Oh, you told me you thought he was a right prick. So _are_ you seeing someone? You didn’t answer, don’t think I didn’t notice!”

“Well—” Jim hesitates. But isn’t this what he was just thinking he needed—a friend? Someone to listen? “Sort of,” he admits. Then, over John’s delighted gasp: “Or, at least, I was. I don’t think I am anymore.”

“ _No,_ ” John moans, sliding down in his seat. “Oh, Jim, I’m so sorry. What happened?”

Jim smiles, thinly. “I was too overbearing, I think.”

“ _No,_ ” John says again, and now he looks horrified. “No, I refuse to believe it. You can’t have met two jerks like me in one year. Come on, how long have you been seeing this guy?”

“Since…” Jim thinks back, and pauses, shocked. “Since July. So what’s that, about three months?”

“So what _happened?_ I refuse to believe that he finds you too overbearing—not this soon, anyway,” he adds cheekily, and then pats Jim’s arm. “I’m kidding, Jim. But seriously, will you tell me?”

Jim is reminded, horribly, of the last night he saw Freddie—Freddie in tears, Freddie refusing to talk about whatever upset him so badly.

He’s not that way. He’ll always talk it out first.

“Yeah,” he sighs, “yeah, all right. So, he’s—he’s very nervous, I think, he gets himself all worked up sometimes, and I don’t know what it’s about. Doesn’t help that he was on coke the other night. Anyway, I tried to calm him down, you know, with the breathing stuff I learned from my uncle? But in the end, he just fell to pieces anyway and wouldn’t tell me why.” He swallows. “All I could do was hold him. I think I pushed him too hard—I should have said no to the sex.”

“That could have made it worse,” John points out. “I mean, it doesn’t _sound_ like you did anything wrong, Jim. Maybe he’s just embarrassed and avoiding you for a bit.”

Jim shrugs. “Maybe. But I’m not sure he gets embarrassed, not like that. He just pretends it never happened.” He sighs and puts his head in his hands. “I’m sure I could have helped if I just knew _why_ , but he wouldn’t say.”

“Did you apologize?” John asks.

“What?”

“Did you apologize? For—being too overbearing or whatever?”

“I did ask if I hurt him,” Jim says, remembering.

“What did he say?”

“He said I didn’t.” Jim makes a face. “And then he said that _no one_ could hurt him. He was in a bit of a mood.”

“Sounds like you’ve really pulled one there, mate,” John says, and Jim feels an instant surge of protectiveness.

“He’s _not_ like that—he’s really very sweet, John, I think you would like him, he’s just—he has trouble sometimes. I wish I knew why, because most of the time he’s the sweetest thing you could imagine.” Jim rubs his eyes. “I miss him,” he admits, raggedly.

John looks at him sympathetically. “Why don’t you call him?” he suggests. “Just ask to see him? Talk to him at least? Then you’ll know for sure.”

And Jim feels, immediately, like the world’s biggest idiot. He does, of course, have Freddie’s phone number in a drawer back at his flat, though he’s always waited for Freddie to contact _him_ first—and what conclusions might Freddie draw from that?

“Oh,” he says out loud, stupidly.

“Oh?” John parrots, grinning again. “Did you forget how to use the telephone, Hutton?”

“No, I—I just—” He pauses. He’s always assumed that Freddie would be busy, that Freddie would have to make time for him, but if there really is no difference between the Freddie he knows and Freddie _fucking_ Mercury, then shouldn’t he be able to make plans too? Shouldn’t he prove he means what he said? “It’s complicated,” Jim says, lamely. “But I think I can uncomplicate it. Maybe.”

“If anyone can uncomplicate something, it’s you, Jim,” John says loyally. He really always has been a good friend. “Call this man of yours, yeah? Will you tell me how it goes?”

Jim considers. “At some point,” he says at last. “It’s still new, and like I said, it’s… complicated. But I promise I’ll tell you all about it sometime, all right?”

“I can live with that, even if you’re being deliberately mysterious. Goodness! Do I know him? Is that why you won’t tell me?”

“I think you might know him,” Jim says evasively, “slightly.”

John laughs, and says, “All right, keep your secrets! I’ll wait until you can tell me everything.”

-

Getting ready for a tour has always been a chaotic mess, but Freddie thinks it’s worse than ever this time—worse because of the usual things like packing, and his parents, and leaving the cats, are compounded by new things like the fucking Old Grey Whistle Test films and Jerry being ill for a few days and— _Jim_. Jim, most of all. Jim, who he’s been afraid to call for three weeks.

Oh, he’s such an _idiot_.

Jim’s been so kind to him, and always says such nice things, and holds him whenever he wants it, and Freddie _still_ fucks it up. With nothing to go off of, he can still fuck everything up. He can destroy anything, it’s really true. There’s a line between charmingly eccentric and obnoxiously childish, and he’s well and truly crossed it now—why should Jim want to come back? Why should he want to deal with Freddie on a volunteer basis, when _Freddie_ is stuck with Freddie and can’t stand the fucking bitch? Jim’s not like Phoebe or Paul, he’s not being _paid_ to put up with Freddie’s hysterics.

Freddie stares down into his champagne glass, swirling the liquid slowly from side to side so it shimmers. The restaurant has the perfect lighting for it, the soft glow catching just so on the smooth, even, pale champagne color; it glitters like diamonds, like some of his stage costumes.

Next to him, Paul leans over his shoulder, setting a hand discreetly on his thigh, hidden below the tablecloth. “Are you feeling all right, Freddie?”

Freddie flinches, the words too familiar, and shrugs Paul away. “I’m fine. She’s fucking late.”

“She’s high, Freddie.”

“ _She_ called _me_. She should be on fucking time.” Moodily, Freddie sips his champagne. He doesn’t want to be here, but he doesn’t want to be at home, packing, even more. Especially because he hasn’t exactly started.

Elton chooses that moment to sweep through the doors, silly bitch; it’s like he has a sixth sense for making the best possible entrance at any given time. He’s wearing what looks like a miniature version of one of his stage outfits, and it causes quite a stir. They’re supposed to be sitting in a private corner—not that it was all that private with Freddie _fucking_ Mercury there, thanks awfully—but it’s even less so now, when Elton drops into the seat opposite Freddie in a cloud of big, bright, and _loud_.

Freddie adores him. His annoyance immediately evaporates.

“Sharon!” he coos. “Where _have_ you been, darling? I haven’t seen you about in _ages_.”

“Taking a break, Melina, taking a break,” Elton says, even more rapid-fire than normal. He’s done quite a few lines before coming, then. Poor dear; he’s taking the breakup with John Reid hard, even though he knows, as he’s told Freddie multiple times, that it’s a good idea. “Christ, what does a girl have to do to get a drink around here?”

“She asks Trixie,” Freddie says, giggling. He taps Paul on the shoulder theatrically. “Trixie! Drinks for Sharon! You _do_ know what she likes, darling.”

Good-naturedly, Paul smiles at Freddie and gets up to engage a waiter. The spot at his side is very empty, and very cold, with no Paul in it. No Paul, no Phoebe, no—

“Where are your people, dear?” Freddie asks in desperation, turning back to Elton. “You shouldn’t be alone, you know. There are dreadful people out here.”

Elton just shrugs. It’s quite a production in the jacket he’s wearing. “I left them outside,” he grumbles, propping his chin up on his shoulder. “They _boors_ , Melina, truly boors. Besides,” he adds, and there’s something almost vulnerable in his eyes, “I came here to meet _you_ , not drag toadies around.”

Freddie’s heart squeezes. “Oh, darling.” He can’t take Elton’s hand in public, so he hooks their ankles together under the table instead, where no one can see, and hopes the gesture will be felt regardless. “What do you want to talk about?” he asks, because he knows that, like him, Elton doesn’t want to be asked if he’s _all right_. “Shall I tell you about our tour? We’ll be gone in a little over a week, you know!”

At this, Elton does brighten up a bit. He may have stopped playing live—for now, at least, Freddie doubts he’ll be able to keep away for long—but he adores hearing about other shows, always has. Freddie flatters himself that Elton likes hearing about _his_ best, because they have similar tastes.

“Where are you going this time?” he asks now. “Europe? America? Japan again? You love Japan, you’ve always told me—”

“Oh, darling, Japan is amazing! But no, this time it’s America. No Japan that I know of.” Freddie sighs longingly. “I shall have to wait to buy more antiques.”

Finally, Paul returns, though it’s with a slight frown and no drinks. “They’re working on them,” he assures the table, and while Elton grumbles, he leans down to speak into Freddie’s ear: “Telephone for you, Freddie. It’s Phoebe.”

Freddie resists the urge to leap to his feet, though only barely. “What is it?” he asks frantically, fighting to keep his voice low. “Is it Jerry? Or my parents? Or Mary? Or—”

“No, no, nothing like that,” Paul says hastily. “He just has a call to pass to you. An old fling, I think. Do you want to take it?”

Freddie doesn’t, particularly, though just now he can’t remember who even has his number. Then he glances at Elton, who’s looking particularly thunderous at his delayed drink, and changes his mind.

“Oh, let’s just get it over with, darling,” he sighs, slipping out of his chair. “They’ll just keep calling back until I do, I expect, I’m not changing my fucking number. Where’s the telephone?”

Paul leads him over to a black rotary telephone set back by the kitchens. It is, when Freddie considers it, probably the best place for it—it’s too loud for anyone to overhear what he’s saying. Paul places himself nearby, watching the hallway, and Freddie picks up the receiver.

“Hello? Phoebe, darling, what is it?”

“Freddie?”

But it’s not Phoebe.

It’s Jim.

Freddie’s whole body clenches up in surprise and horror. “Jim?” he hears himself say, faint and far-away. His heart’s leaping up into his throat.

Jim lets out a crackling breath into the speaker. “Hey,” he says, and his voice is as warm as always. Already, Freddie can feel the tension falling from him like water. “I’m—I’m sorry if I’m bothering you, but I wanted to ask if you… if you wanted to meet up sometime? Soon?”

“You’re not bothering me,” Freddie breathes, and everything else is forgotten. Jim called him, Jim _called him!_ “I would love to meet up, darling. Only—” He glances back at the restaurant, just remembering. “I can’t right now, I’m with a friend. But later? Maybe tonight?”

“Tonight,” Jim repeats, and Freddie can hear him smiling. “That’s fine by me. I’m free.”

“Oh, good,” Freddie says. He closes his eyes and leans his forehead against the wall, cradling the phone like it’s Jim’s hands, his face. “I’ve missed you so, darling.”

“I’ve missed you too, Freddie,” Jim says, sincerity in every word, and Freddie feels like he’s glowing. Like he’s caught light without meaning to. “Where do you want to go? Heaven?”

Freddie doesn’t even have to consider. “No, let’s stay in,” he says decisively. “I have _plans_ for you, darling.”

Jim laughs, and it’s beautiful. Freddie can’t wait to see him, to _touch_ him. He feels so much better than he did when he picked up the phone not even two minutes ago.

“I’ll call you before I leave,” Jim says, “how about that?”

He can’t help smiling, widely, foolishly. He ducks his head and raises a hand to cover his mouth, though there’s nobody here but Paul to see him. “That would be lovely, darling,” he says.

When Phoebe gets back on, he asks for Paul, and Freddie passes the telephone back to him. He wanders back to the table alone, in a haze, mind full of Jim, and at first hardly registers when Elton demands, “Who were you speaking to? Were you speaking to _him?_ ”

“What?” Freddie says, reality returning with a _bump_. He frowns. “Who are you talking about?”

“Who do you _think_ I’m talking about?!”

Oh, for fuck’s sake. “Oh, please, darling,” Freddie scoffs, “as _if_ I’d go for John Reid. You _know_ perfectly well he’s not my type, Sharon!”

Elton glares with red-rimmed eyes, clutching a glass of expensive wine in his hand. He’s drained half of it in the time Freddie’s been gone. “I _don’t_ know that,” he says, near tears. “He’s very persuasive.”

“Elton,” Freddie says, abandoning the nicknames, and leans across the table to lay a hand on his forearm. _Fuck_ propriety. “There’s never been anything between us,” he says earnestly, looking directly into his eyes. “I _swear_. That was someone else.”

After a long pause, Elton tips back more wine. “I do _know_ that, really,” he mumbles. He looks down into his wine like Freddie had done with his champagne earlier, turning the glass in his hand. “Just, with that look on your face—is it serious?”

“It’s _me_ , darling” Freddie says, fluttering a hand dismissively. “Of course it’s not serious.” His voice wavers, dangerously. Traitorously.

Elton just eyes him. “Right,” he says after a beat. “Just… be careful, dear, all right? I _do_ know you.”

“I don’t know what you mean,” Freddie mutters. He snatches up his champagne and takes a quick sip.

“You have a fragile heart, Freddie,” Elton says bluntly. Christ, even drunk and high he’s on form. “Be careful, please. For me?”

Freddie shrugs, then nods. He can’t speak.

Sighing, Elton drains his wine. “Well, we can commiserate when we’re both broken-hearted,” he says, with a twisted smile. “Maybe it’ll even be—what do they call it— _therapeutic._ ”

“Somehow, I doubt that,” Freddie says, and raises his glass in a toast.

Still, when he sees Jim tonight, his heart leaps, and he immediately throws himself into his arms. They eat a small dinner prepared beforehand by Phoebe, and watch some television show that Freddie doesn’t even pay attention to because he’s lying tucked up against Jim and it’s so perfect that he can’t think of anything else. Afterwards, in bed, Jim fucks him slowly, gently, touching him softly and holding him still with those big hands, and it should be infuriating—it _is_ , in a way, the _best_ way—but instead it’s magical, it’s stealing Freddie’s breath and his heart and he’s fucked, oh he’s fucked. He can’t be careful about this.

“You’re so beautiful,” Jim says.

“Oh, look at you, that’s right, you’re doing so well—”

“Does that feel good? Yeah, I can tell, your _face_ , Freddie—”

“Oh, baby, oh, Freddie—”

And Freddie clings when it’s over, tries his best to press them together until they’re one being, and Jim lets him—does more than let him, holds him back, even, stroking him absently with his fingertips, like it’s natural. Like they do this all the time.

He rests his head against Jim’s pulse. In that liminal space between sleep and the waking world, he thinks that he could do this for the rest of his life.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, there is some truth to the fiction—we haven't gone completely off the rails yet! Elton John broke up with John Reid in autumn 1977, even as he struggled with drugs and alcohol, and Jim and his ex really did remain friends.
> 
> Stay fabulous, darlings!


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Freddie forgets some important details. Also featuring special guest Ivy Taverner, Jim's landlady.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for some dubcon vibes at the beginning of this chapter. You can skip to Jim's POV section (which is divided with a centered "-" dash) if you want to avoid all of that.

**Winter, 1977**

America, gilded land of promise and opportunity, home of the skyscraper and Madison Square Garden and the best nightlife Freddie’s ever seen. The clubs in New York are to _die_ for.

Not that any of those things are where he is right now. No, Freddie’s slumped beside the toilet in some shit hotel room, puking his guts up. He half-expects his diaphragm to force its way out of his mouth, he’s heaving so forcefully, his body apparently trying to expel every ounce of alcohol he drank tonight. His brain pulses behind his eyes. God, he’s so dizzy. He might fall over.

He tips his head into the cool porcelain and tries to just breathe, fighting back another wave of nausea. Fuck, where _is_ he? This doesn’t look like his room. He’s pretty sure his bathroom isn’t quite this shitty and disgusting, though anything is possible in some godforsaken snowbound state, wherever the _fuck_ they are right now. He can’t remember that either, except that it’s not New York. They haven’t hit New York yet.

If this was his room, Phoebe would be here by now—or Paul, even—ready to tuck him into bed and cluck over him until he feels better. He doesn’t know how long he’s been vomiting for, but it feels like an eternity.

Finally, when there’s nothing left to come up, Freddie grabs the toilet lid and levers himself to his feet, stumbling back into the counter and nearly pulling the damned thing off while he’s at it. His head’s spinning horribly; he clutches at the sink, since that seems less likely to come loose, and just stands there on trembling legs that he can’t feel properly. Inadvertently, he meets his own eyes in the cracked mirror.

He’s a mess—hair all over the place, eyes glassy, hints of stage makeup still smeared in the creases of his face. Most damning of all, there’s a bite mark at the join of his shoulder and his neck—not the worst he’s had, it’s not bleeding, but it’ll bruise something awful.

That’s right—the trucker. Freddie remembers him now, vaguely. He was broad, stocky, dark-haired, just the way Freddie likes, and his calloused hands held him reassuringly tightly. Most of the night is an alcohol- and hormone-infused blur, but Freddie’s aching in telling places; he knows what happened.

He manages to turn on one of the faucets and splashes water onto his face, fighting to focus past the dizziness. It had been fun at the time, but it’s not anymore, not when he’s cold and alone in a tiny, dirty bathroom. He wants Paul. He wants Phoebe. He wants _Jim_.

(You think Jim will want you anymore when he realizes what a slut you are? You’ll go to bed with any man who gives you a second glance. Why would he want someone so shallow and _easy?_ He deserves better than you.)

Freddie can’t find it in himself to disagree.

Unwillingly, he opens the bathroom door, revealing the tiny hotel room. It’s equally horrid, the sort of place Freddie wouldn’t be caught dead in these days—except when he’s slumming it. He’s glad he apparently pulled his jeans and socks back on after letting the trucker fuck him.

The trucker’s asleep—or passed out—in the bed, one arm up over his face. Like that, he could be Jim, except Freddie only feels cold, and lonely. Jim never makes him feel like that, even when Freddie can’t see his face.

He wobbles over to the single window and peeks out the curtains. To his vast relief, he recognizes one of the cars out in the parking lot, pulled from the tour’s vehicle pool. There’s someone in the driver’s seat and another person next to him; Freddie can tell because they’re both smoking, and he can see the orange glimmer of their cigarettes in the dark.

He finds his shoes on opposite sides of the room, and his shirt halfway under the bed. His jacket has been thrown over the room’s single chair, and he pulls it on, zipping it up tight, hiding the growing bruise at his shoulder away. Touching the spot with his fingertips, he presses in for a moment, hard, until it hurts. Until he can focus his mind, push past the dizziness and the ache and the slight, lingering fear at coming to with no idea how he got here.

The trucker doesn’t even stir when he finally stumbles out of the room, banging the door shut.

The parking lot is huge for such a tiny, shitty excuse for a hotel, and Paul gets out of the car before he’s halfway there—he’s weaving a bit as he walks, Christ, things got rough, he’s really starting to feel it now—and hurries to meet him. He puts one arm around Freddie’s waist, and Freddie happily lets him take most of his weight. He lets his head loll into Paul’s shoulder, inhaling his familiar, comforting scent.

“That’s it, there you go,” Paul says soothingly. His touch is gently commanding, steering Freddie to the back of the car. “Do you want to go back to the hotel after all?”

Freddie blinks at him as he opens up the car door. “Why would I not want to go back to the hotel?”

“You were quite adamant earlier, Freddie.” Carefully, Paul helps him slide into the seat, and Freddie can’t help wincing slightly, shifting in a futile attempt to find a comfortable way to sit. “You chased everyone else off, remember?”

Freddie does not remember. He shrugs.

Paul sighs and takes his place beside Freddie, patting him distractedly. “Alex,” he says to the driver, “take us back, please.” To Freddie, he adds, “I’m sure they’re all very worried about you after you sent them away like that and tried to go off on your own.”

It’s unclear who’s included in _they_. The only one Freddie feels certain of is Phoebe, because he can vaguely remember being infuriated by his concern, by his large, soft hand on Freddie’s elbow, his mouth moving in the shape of, _Freddie, are you sure?_

“You can go off with a smaller entourage, if that’s what you want,” Paul’s saying now. “But please take me with you, Freddie, all right? I worry about you when you disappear and I’m sure the others do too. You worry everybody.”

Freddie tilts into Paul, closing his eyes. “I don’t mean to, darling,” he whispers.

“But it happens anyway, doesn’t it, Freddie?” Paul combs his fingers through his hair, teasing at the curls. “You should try to be more thoughtful.”

(He’s right, you know—you never consider other people’s feelings. You’re a selfish bitch and you only care about yourself, what _you_ can get. You never think what might be important to someone else—what might be important to _Jim_.)

Freddie closes his eyes.

Eight days ago, Freddie calls Jim from a hotel in a different godforsaken snowbound state, sitting up against the headboard with the telephone cord wound around a finger. It’s a free night and the others are either seeing the sights or drinking—though what Brian thinks he can see here, Freddie has no idea—and Freddie is alone, minders temporarily sent away. Well, alone but for Jim, who will be on the other line once someone picks up, and that doesn’t feel very alone at all. They’ll be going clubbing later but _this_ , here, feels like the highlight of the night, even better than sex. He’s breathless with nerves and excitement.

At last, just when it seems like the call will ring through, someone picks up at the other end. “The _bloody_ cheek!” It must be Jim’s landlady, and she sounds quite cross. “Do you have _any_ idea what time it is? The _nerve_ , calling at this hour!”

“Oh,” Freddie says, taken aback. He quickly tries to figure out how many hours ahead London is from here, only to give up when he realizes he doesn’t know what time zone he’s in. “Ah—I’m calling for Jim?” His voice pitches upward uncertainly. He doesn’t know what else to say. He had a _plan_ for this call, one that would keep Jim from forgetting about him while he’s gone, and he didn’t account for this bit.

She curses under her breath and bangs the receiver down. For a moment, Freddie thinks she’s hung up on him, but instead it seems as though she’s just slammed it down onto a table. He can hear her, very faintly, walking away in the background.

He hopes she’s gone to get Jim and hasn’t just left him hanging to teach him a lesson. He’s much less certain of himself now—the nerves are winning—he didn’t even _think_ to check the time. It never matters, with Mary and the cats, and he only rarely calls his parents when he’s on tour. He has no experience with this sort of situation. His careful plan is in tatters.

Freddie’s considering hanging up the phone and trying again later—it’s not like he gave the landlady his name, so how will Jim know it’s him?—just as the receiver’s picked up again.

“Hello?” Jim says, voice hoarse from sleep.

“Jim!” Freddie exclaims, all reservations instantly forgotten because he’s a stupid, silly little _tart_. “It’s me, darling.”

“Freddie?” Jim sounds more awake now. “What’s happened? Is something wrong?”

“No, nothing’s _wrong_ , dear, not at all.” Freddie twirls the spiral cord, twisting it into kinks and then undoing them. He’s smiling. “I just miss you. Is that so wrong?”

Jim laughs quietly. “Well, my landlady might disagree with you, since you’re missing me at—what, one o’clock in the morning?”

“Oh, darling, I can’t be expected to keep track of what time zone I’m in, that’s what I have _people_ for!” Freddie pulls his knees to his chest and presses the receiver closer to his face, like doing so will somehow also bring Jim closer. “I really didn’t remember that it was so early in London, though. I hope she’s not too cross.”

There’s a slight pause. “No, I don’t think she’s very happy,” Jim says slowly. “Are you not in London right now?”

“Of course not, darling! I told you, remember? We’re on tour in America until just before Christmas.”

This time, the pause is longer. “No, I don’t think you mentioned that.”

“But I did!” Freddie protests. “I _did_ tell you, remember, when—” He strains to think of when it was; he _knows_ he told Jim, he must have, surely, even if he can’t remember exactly when. He can’t have forgotten, the tour has been on his mind for months, he would have _mentioned_ it to Jim—right? “I _did_ ,” he says feebly. “Or—or I meant to.”

Jim sighs, and it crackles over the speaker. “All right,” he says. “So you’re in America. Freddie, it’s really late here and I have work in the morning.”

“Oh,” Freddie mumbles. “Right.” He does his best to rally, to ignore the sinking in his chest, that awful, familiar feeling of failure, of having fucked up something good. “Well, make sure to get as much sleep as you can, darling.”

And when Phoebe comes in to fetch him because the car’s there, waiting to ferry them to the first club on Freddie’s list, Freddie throws an ashtray at the wall and curses him out, black fury eating at his ribs.

That’s how things have stayed, more or less. Freddie hates it. He hates himself, hates the anger, the helplessness. Hates not knowing if Jim is forgetting him even as he sits here in a car with Paul, bruises from another man’s hands on his hips.

He’s so _tired_. He wants to crawl in bed and go to sleep, dreamlessly. Just… stop _being_ , for at least a little while.

“Will you stay with me tonight?” he asks, his voice vanishingly small under the sound of the tires on asphalt.

“I have a lot of work to do to keep the tour going, Freddie.”

Freddie ducks his head. Tears prickle at the corners of his eyes. “ _Please_ , Paul.”

“All right,” Paul relents. “I can make some time for you.” He puts his arm around Freddie’s shoulders, hugging him close. “There. Does that make it better?”

Nodding, Freddie hides his face in Paul’s shoulder. This is all he wants right now—he’s too sore for anything else tonight, really, but when they get back to his hotel room—much nicer than the one he just came from, thank fuck—and Paul asks, his hand on his inner thigh, urging his legs apart, he gives in. He’s so tired, and all he can do is accept Paul’s touch, his kisses, his cock, until he finally climaxes—weakly, but still—not long after Paul has come inside him.

“ _There_ you are,” Paul says, satisfied. He’s flushed red with exertion and his hair sticks to his forehead. “Feel better now?”

Freddie kisses him. Winds his limp arms around his shoulders and holds on tight. “Can’t you stay, darling?” he asks, and he knows he sounds like a child.

“Freddie,” Paul says, so gently, and Freddie knows where this is going even before he continues. “I have so many things to take care of. And someone has to let your friends know that you’re all right, don’t they?”

“I suppose.”

“Of course. I’m doing all of this to help you, Freddie, don’t you understand that? It’s a lot of time and work but I do it for you.”

“I know you do, darling,” Freddie whispers. He kisses Paul one last time, lingering. He doesn’t want to be in this huge bed all on his own. “Can you send Phoebe in, if you’re leaving?”

“Let me see if I can find him,” Paul promises. “He may still be out looking for you, though, Freddie. So give me some time, okay?”

Freddie’s heart sinks, but he nods.

“Silly thing,” Paul says fondly, kissing him and squeezing his hands. Then he’s moving to get off the bed, to gather his clothes and disappear back into the night—or early morning, rather, as Freddie can see when he glances at the clock. “Just get some sleep. Phoebe will be here before you know it.”

Gingerly, Freddie pulls the covers over himself, pulling them up to his chin. The flowery comforter is so heavy that it almost feels like a real weight, like there’s someone else—or a cat—sitting on top of him. It’s oddly nice, and he feels slightly less alone when Paul leaves, shutting the door behind himself.

Still, it doesn’t take long for the telephone on the side table to draw Freddie’s eyes. It’s the same model as every telephone in every hotel in America; he’s known how to dial international numbers off that thing for years. He could—if he wanted to—

But Jim won’t want to hear from him. He fucked up, forgetting about the tour and time zones. It’s like he doesn’t _care_ , like he’s just using Jim—like he’s not drawn to him like a moth to a flame.

And Jim is what he wants right now. He can’t help thinking that Jim would have stayed with him, even if he was busy, and he _misses_ that, he misses Jim’s arms around him and Jim’s heart under his cheek. He’s so alone here, and cold, and on the verge of tears. _Jim_ would help him.

He’s dialing the familiar number before he can muster up enough arguments to talk himself out of it.

-

It’s Jim’s day off, and he’s working in Ms. Taverner’s back garden while she’s at the shops, getting her groceries for the week. It’s something to do, and gardening has always helped calm him, given him the time and space to think about things that bother him. Sometimes, he almost thinks he could solve the world’s problems with his hands in the dirt.

Right now, his thoughts are directed toward Freddie, like they often have been lately.

No, Freddie never told him he would be on tour with his band until Christmas, but Jim could have asked. He’s not an expert in the music scene by any definition of the word, but he _does_ know that bands travel, so it’s only to be expected that at some point Freddie would have to do the same. He’s mentioned that they’ve been recording an album, once or twice, and from what Jim’s gathered (mostly from other people at the Savoy), a finished album is almost always followed up with a tour. Freddie probably assumed that Jim knew these fairly basic facts about what he does for a living.

And yes, Freddie should have checked the time zones first and avoided calling in the middle of the night, but Jim, who’s never traveled outside of Ireland and Britain in his life, can’t even begin to imagine how anyone could keep track of something like that. He shouldn’t have been so short with him; Freddie obviously didn’t mean it. He just didn’t realize.

Ms. Taverner had been furious, though, and given Jim a bit of a dressing-down. He’s been putting in more hours in the garden in an attempt to make up for it.

He wishes he could call Freddie back and make up for that too, but he doesn’t have a number to use. If Freddie’s not at his flat, then he has no way of contacting him—and that’s just the way things are right now.

Even though there’s nothing he can do, he still feels the weight of his mistakes on his shoulders. They were both at least partly in the wrong, and Jim hates leaving this sort of thing to fester. Here he is again, picking it over in his mind, even though he’s already gone through it a dozen times in the past eight days. He’d rather just have it out and be done with it, if Freddie’s angry with him, or soothe his tears, if he’s just upset.

He’s in the house getting a glass of water when the telephone rings. Quickly, he checks around the ground floor, but Ms. Taverner still isn’t back with her shopping, so he picks it up for her.

“Hello? Ivy Taverner’s residence.”

There’s a pause at the other end, then, small and timid: “Jim?”

“Freddie.” Jim exhales, hard, and props his hip up against the table.

“Oh, I-I just wanted to talk to you,” Freddie says, and from the strain in his voice Jim can tell he’s near tears. “B-but if you’re busy—”

“Not at all,” Jim says immediately. “I’m not busy. I want to talk to you, too, Freddie.” He takes a chance and adds: “I missed you.”

It’s Freddie’s turn to let out a shaky breath. “Oh,” he mumbles. He sounds drunk, not totally in control of himself, but sweet with it. “You aren’t angry?”

“No, I’m not angry. I never was, really, Freddie. My _landlady_ , on the other hand, would prefer if you keep your calls to daylight hours, like right now.”

“I—I forgot to look, actually, darling,” Freddie confesses with a wet giggle. “What time is it over there?”

Jim checks the clock. “It’s just gone nine o’clock in the morning.”

“I’ll write it down. Look, I’ll write it down right now, then I won’t forget.” There’s rustling on the other end of the line, Freddie moving around, and he says, “Where do they _keep_ that fucking—Christ, always the last drawer.”

Jim finds himself smiling. It’s a little like Freddie’s here in the room with him, and it’s the best he’s felt since the last time they saw each other. “What are you looking for?”

“The free notepad the hotel people give you,” Freddie says distractedly. He lets out a suppressed noise of triumph. “There! Now I won’t ring you up when your landlady is asleep, darling.”

“I’ll hold you to that,” Jim says.

“Trust me, dear, I won’t make that mistake again in a hurry. Did you know she swore at me? I thought you said she was a sweet little lady!”

“Oh, she has a temper, and you’ve gotten on her bad side now.”

He can just hear Freddie’s little sigh over more cloth-on-cloth background noises, and then he makes an odd, slightly pained sound. “I didn’t mean to,” he says. He’s cheered up a bit over the past couple of minutes, but now he seems to be edging back into gloomy.

“I’m doing more work in her garden,” Jim says quickly, “to help her get over it. She loves her garden, and even in the winter there’s work to do.”

“That’s right, dear, you said you do that sort of thing too.” His breath crackles through the receiver. He’s holding the telephone right up to his face. “Tell me about it,” Freddie says, his voice soft and shy.

So Jim does. He explains the state of the garden when he came to live here, and everything he’s done since—reorganizing the little path, trimming the existing plants, placing new ones with Ms. Taverner’s permission. She’s not rich and the back garden isn’t big, but he’s done the best he can, and he’s actually quite proud of the result.

“I wish I could bring you to see it,” he says, though thinking about Freddie—larger-than-life Freddie—in Ms. Taverner’s little back garden seems somehow absurd. With a twinge, Jim wonders if, seeing the trivial results of Jim’s labor, Freddie will realize how small-time Jim actually is and leave him for someone better.

“I’d love to see it,” Freddie murmurs sleepily. “I don’t understand why you don’t do gardens for a living, darling, you sound so good at it.”

“You’ve never even _seen_ my landscaping work, Freddie.”

“I can tell,” Freddie insists. “I don’t have to see it to know.” He pauses for a moment, and the sounds from his end suggest that he’s shifting. “I’m not keeping you from anything, am I?” he asks, suddenly vulnerable again.

“No. It’s my day off today.”

“Then—then will you talk to me? For a little while longer?”

“What do you want me to talk about?”

“Anything,” Freddie whispers. He sounds exhausted, worn to the bone and near tears. “I love listening to you talk.”

“I can tell you about a cat I saw the other day on my way to work, how about that?”

Freddie sniffles. “That sounds lovely, darling.”

“He reminded me of your orange one. Jerry, right?” At the soft, affirmative noise, he goes on: “He had a little collar on. I think he belongs to someone in my neighborhood. Now that I think about it, I’ve seen him around before, perched on garden walls. He looks like he thinks he’s king of everything he can see.”

“They’re all like that,” Freddie says, very quietly, very slowly. He’s falling asleep as he speaks. “That’s why I love them.”

“Well, next time I see him, I’m going to see if he’ll let me pet him. He’s a very handsome boy, just like yours. He must have a very happy life, wherever he lives.” Jim pauses, and when Freddie doesn’t respond, he goes on: “I think he’s keeping all of the gardens here clear of rodents. He must be a very talented hunter. I should try to get a picture of him for you, what do you think? I have a polaroid camera that I can use.”

Again, the other side of the line is silent. If Jim listens closely, he can hear Freddie breathing, slowly and evenly.

“Sleep well, Freddie,” he whispers, and gently hangs up.

After that, the calls become more frequent—though, like Freddie promised, always during the day. He even asks for Jim’s work schedule and does a fairly good job of calling for him when he’s at home.

“See? I _can_ be organized,” he says triumphantly one evening.

“Is Phoebe keeping track of all this for you?” Jim asks, laughing. Peter, he knows, is organized, but Freddie doesn’t exactly strike him as that type of person.

“No,” Freddie says, pride evident in his voice. “I’ve done this all on my own, darling.”

He’s been much more upbeat during the other calls than that first one, the one where they made up, and Jim doesn’t know why. He listens carefully to everything Freddie tells him, hoping for a clue about what might have happened that night, but details are few and far between despite the enormous amount of information.

Freddie talks about the concerts, complaining of technical difficulties or praising certain crowds—in general, all things that go _way_ over Jim’s head. He also talks about the places where they’re staying, often complaining about the state of the accommodations, though he does so with a sort of cheerful resignation, like he’s well used to slightly crap hotel rooms by now. He probably is—he’s traveled the _world_. He’s seen things that Jim can’t even imagine, and he still calls Jim every other day or so to just _talk_ , listening to Jim’s boring stories in return like he actually cares.

He doesn’t talk about what he gets up to after the concerts are finished, what his free time looks like. Jim’s not stupid—he has a pretty good idea—but he tries not to think about it, because it makes something in his chest clench and seize.

They aren’t exclusive; they’ve never talked about it. He has no right to presume he has any sort of hold on Freddie when he’s half a world away—except that Freddie calls him, and acts like he misses him, and has fallen asleep listening to Jim. Not because he was bored, Jim doesn’t think—at least, Freddie claims he wasn’t, when Jim asked—but because somehow Jim lulls him, calms him.

A voice calls for Freddie, faint because Freddie always jams the phone so close to his face that it’s difficult to hear anything else, and he says, “Oh, fuck, that’s me. I have to go, darling. Big gig tonight—Madison Square Garden, you know.” He sounds very pleased with himself. “We’ve sold out _two_ nights this time.”

Jim doesn’t know what a Madison Square Garden is or why a band would play there, but he just says, “That sounds great, Freddie.”

The voice calls again, louder: “ _Freddie!_ ”

“Fuck, I’m coming, darling!” Freddie yells back, with such volume that Jim jumps. “Sorry,” he says easily, like Jim’s ears aren’t ringing. “Big night for Brian. I’ll talk to you later, dear.”

“Good luck,” Jim offers, and then Freddie’s hung up, leaving Jim listening to the dial tone. Slowly, he sets it back on the cradle.

Ms. Taverner, sitting in the other room, eyes him narrowly. “He certainly talks a lot, your friend.”

“He’s footing the bill for the calls, Ms. Taverner,” Jim reminds her, politely.

“I know, I know. Still.” She clucks her tongue and goes back to watching the television. “Who has that sort of money to throw around?”

Freddie Mercury, apparently—not that Jim even knows who that is.

The next day, on his way home from work, Jim stops by a record store.

He has _been_ to record stores before—once or twice, with friends. He doesn’t even own a record player; he’ll have to ask Ms. Taverner if he can borrow hers, if, that is, he succeeds at navigating through this packed store and finds what he’s looking for. Not that he knows what that even is in the first place. Sure, he listens to music on the radio at work, but he doesn’t _pay attention_. Music has never been on his radar before.

He must look particularly lost, because the teenage girl sitting behind the counter puts the magazine she’s reading down to scrutinize him. “Hey, can I help you find something?” she calls, snapping her gum loudly for emphasis.

Jim edges towards the counter, suddenly feeling very out of place in his work clothes. He doesn’t know anything about women’s clothes, but the girl looks very trendy, in that sort of rebellious way he’s seen on other teenagers while walking the streets. He’s just staid old Jim.

“Yeah,” he says. “Sorry, I’ve never been here before. I’m looking for an album by Freddie Mercury?”

The girl stares at him. “Do you mean Queen?”

That sounds vaguely familiar, so Jim says, “Ah, yes, sorry.”

“Which album are you looking for?” she asks, propping her chin up on one palm. “Only we’re out of _News of the World_ , so you’ll have to go someplace else for that.”

“I’m not looking for a tabloid,” Jim says, bewildered.

“No, that’s—” She stops short. “You _have_ heard Queen before, right?” And Jim’s expression must answer for him, because she suddenly sits bolt upright. “No!” she gasps. “I won’t allow it! Oh, they’re fabulous, you _have_ to hear them.” Leaping off of her stool, she rushes around the counter and gestures him down one of the multitude of aisles, all of them crammed to bursting with records. “My favorite is Roger, the drummer,” she says conspiratorially, flicking through records so quickly it’s a miracle she can even read the titles. “He’s _so_ cute. Oooh, see, like in this picture!”

She pulls a record out and thrusts it at Jim, tilting it so he can see. It’s all in black, four faces picked out against the background—three young men Jim doesn’t know, and Freddie in the front, hands spread like wings, mysterious and alluring and somehow captured in a picture, though he’s so hard to pin down normally that Jim’s honestly surprised the photographer managed it.

“That’s Roger,” the girl explains excitedly, pointing to the only blond. “He’s the drummer. And _that’s_ the one you were looking for, Freddie Mercury.” She taps Freddie’s curls with one fingertip. “His voice is _amazing_ , I wish I could sing like that. They say that he’s, you know,” she lowers her voice, “ _gay._ Like Elton John. Isn’t that _cool?_ Rock stars really can do anything these days.”

Jim nods and shrugs, aiming for noncommittal, not entirely sure what to say. It’s surreal, standing in a record shop with a girl he’s never met before in his life, listening to her talk about the man he’s sleeping with—like she admires him, but he’s also something to gossip about, a deliciously taboo topic of conversation at school.

“But anyway, _Queen II_ shouldn’t be your first experience.” She slots the record back in with its fellows and keeps flicking through. “You _have_ to hear ‘Bohemian Rhapsody’ before anything else, and that’s in _this_ album.” Pulling a white sleeve out from the cabinet, she waves it above her head with a flourish. “ _A Night at the Opera!_ This is the one you need.”

Jim takes it when she hands it to him, looking down at the cover. There’s no picture here, only a sort of odd crest. Maybe Freddie will explain it to him if he asks. “What’s a ‘Bohemian Rhapsody’?” he asks, flipping open the sleeve to look inside. All of the lyrics have been carefully transcribed, and Jim really doesn’t know what he’s looking for—he’s certainly no expert on this—but he’s impressed that Freddie helped produce this thing that he’s holding in his hands, that he can buy at a real store. That people out there can put this on their turntables and hear Freddie all across the country.

“Nobody knows,” the girl says, her eyes bright with enthusiasm. “Freddie Mercury wrote it but he’s not telling, and none of the others will either. They’re _so_ mysterious about what all the lyrics mean. I’ve spent hours poring over them just trying to figure it out. I _know_ it makes sense, I really do—oh, god, I’m boring you, aren’t I?” She giggles nervously. “I’m sorry, it’s just—I really love their music—”

“You’re fine,” Jim assures her. “I really appreciate all of your help. I wouldn’t have even known where to start.”

She giggles again. “Well, next time ask for Queen, okay? Freddie Mercury doesn’t have any solo albums.”

“I’ll try to keep that in mind,” Jim says. “What other Queen albums should I listen to, then? If I like this one?”

So Jim walks away with one album—the one with the rhapsody thing on it—carefully wrapped in brown paper, and a list in his pocket. The girl had pulled out a notepad and numbered her choices for him, then made sure he knew that this was their _entire_ discography (whatever that means), but it was all worth a listen. Jim only bought the one—he’s not made of money—but he promised to come back to the same store if he wanted more.

Back at his place, he discovers that Ms. Taverner is installed in her sitting room, as he’d hoped, watching her programs, knitting needles flying.

“Ms. Taverner?”

She hums in acknowledgement, not looking up from her knitting.

“Do you mind if I borrow your turntable for a little while?”

“Just be careful with it,” she warns without dropping a stitch, “it’s new, that.”

Jim takes the record up to his rooms first, laying it carefully on the small kitchen table, then comes back down for the turntable and speakers. It takes some fiddling, but eventually he has everything plugged in and the record in place. He swings the needle into place—the girl said to start with that ‘Bohemian Rhapsody’ thing, and he’s pretty sure he’s found it—and lowers it, as gently as possible, loath to scratch the disc.

Then he sits back, the sleeve clutched in his hands, and listens.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Can I just say that I find it super adorable that Jim obviously knew nothing about music or the music scene when he met Freddie? So cute. I can't handle these two, they are the perfect couple and I will never believe otherwise.
> 
> I hope you all enjoyed, and I'll see you next Monday!


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Freddie continues to make poor decisions. Meanwhile, Jim can't sleep, and Roger is a good friend.

“You seem happier.”

Freddie looks up from the newspaper he’s been vaguely paging through to see Roger standing in front of him, hands on his hips, sleeves pushed up to his elbows.

“What was that, darling?”

“I said,” Roger says, dropping down next to him on the couch, “you seem happier. Lately, I mean.”

“Well, darling, have you seen our numbers? They’re fantastic, of course I’m happy.” He flips the newspaper to the music review section and makes a face. “Could do with some better page space, though.”

“What do you mean?” Roger leans over his shoulder, trying to see. “What are they saying?”

“Oh, the usual shit, darling, you know how it is.” Freddie folds the paper up contemptuously and tosses it to the side. Today, he’s more angry than upset, which is a small blessing—he can use that, channel it. He’ll blow their fucking _minds_ tonight, just see if he won’t.

“Fuck ‘em,” Roger mutters, and for a moment they sit in the companionable silence of two people wishing pain and death on all music journalists, watching wardrobe roll in the giant cases of clothes. “That’s not what I wanted to talk about, though,” he says suddenly.

“Oh?”

“You’ve been _happy,_ ” Roger says, elbowing him and grinning. “Don’t lie, I’ve seen you smiling. Met someone new?”

It’s like they’re back on the stall, just two boys with nothing better to do than talk about their dreams and their dates. So much has changed since then—Freddie especially—but Roger’s simple enthusiasm never fades. Even now, even with Freddie… the way he is, he still asks, still seems to care about the answer.

“I don’t know what you mean, dear,” Freddie says, looking away, though the mere thought of Jim brings an irrepressible smile to his face. Inside, his heart clenches; he’s lost, he’s fucked, oh god, he can’t _control_ himself. Jim is laying claim to him, conquering him, and when he leaves Freddie will be razed to the ground, salted and burned. The smile freezes on his face, becomes something rigid and awkward.

“I _knew_ it!” Roger crows. In his excitement, he grabs Freddie’s forearm, not too hard, and shakes it. “I _knew_ something was up—it’s someone back home, isn’t it? That’s why you’re on the telephone so much?”

Freddie glances at all the people milling about—their crew and the venue’s, all mixed together. “Darling, I don’t think…”

“Oh, no one’s listening,” Roger says impatiently. He flings an arm around Freddie’s shoulders and jostles him close, and Freddie’s confused chest warms. “I’m happy for you, Fred. You know that, right?”

Looking down at his knees, Freddie watches his hands scrape into fists on his thighs, nails pressing into his palms. Roger knows—at least theoretically—what those hands have touched, and he still hugs him like he does anyone else. Like Freddie is just ordinary, just another friend, not what they both know he really is—bent, queer. A _fag_. “Of course, darling,” he says, much more breezily than he feels.

John chooses that moment to enter the dressing room on the heels of the latest wardrobe trunk, and he gives them the look that everyone else has been studiously avoiding. “Is something wrong?” he asks, sharp.

“Nah, mate, we’re fine.” Roger bounces up and claps John on the shoulder, bearing up to the resulting side-eye with remarkable fortitude. “Where’s Bri?”

“With the guitars,” Deacy says. “Where else?” He moves across the room to the catering table and pours himself a generous measure of Scotch, then knocks it back without even wincing. His wedding ring glimmers faintly against the glass.

Roger and Freddie exchange glances, but neither of them say anything. It’s not like, Freddie reflects, he has a leg to stand on here—he’s performed blind drunk before, though he usually saves it for the afterparty. That’s when he truly needs liquid courage, or at least did in the past, when alcohol was the only thing making him brave enough to seek out dark corners, strong hands, muscled bodies.

He was comparatively sober when he saw Jim for the first time—not that it mattered, not that he could control himself, not that he could stop himself from falling, he’s _weak_ —

Brian does eventually meander in, followed shortly afterwards by Paul, by which point Freddie, at least, is mostly ready. His getup takes the most work to put together, and he’s watched the others slowly decide on their own outfits from his position at the mirror while his hair is picked at, teased until it’s even fluffier than it normally is.

He’s doing his eyeliner when Paul comes up behind him, Freddie’s leather jacket in hand. “How are you feeling, Freddie?” he asks, bending down and speaking quietly enough that only Freddie will understand him. His lips brush Freddie’s ear as he speaks, and Freddie almost shivers.

_Almost_. He can see himself in the mirror, and he’s sleek, dark, dangerous. The thin edge of a knife. He’s Freddie fucking Mercury, and no man can make him tremble without his permission, not even Paul.

(Not even Jim.)

“Just fabulous, darling.” He finishes the eyeliner with one last flick of the pencil and stands, raising his arms with a flourish, twirling to face Paul. “Well, what do you think?”

Paul’s eyes are hot and appreciative on his shoulders, his hips, his legs. “I think you look fantastic, Freddie.”

“Of course I do,” Freddie says loftily. He leans close to Paul, resting a hand on his own jacket, draped over Paul’s arm, and his heart races in his throat with the illicit thrill of dressing like this, letting men _look_ at him while he’s dressed like this. “Everyone in the audience will want to fuck me, don’t you think?” he asks, low, looking up at Paul through his eyelashes.

He has Paul in the palm of his hand, he can see that immediately; pleased, Freddie touches Paul’s shoulder lightly with a fingertip, feels _him_ shiver, ever so slightly. He can taste the power.

“Thank you, darling,” he says, taking the jacket and sliding it on, tossing his hair free of the collar.

“Freddie,” Paul begins, tense, a muscle jumping in his jaw.

“Oi, Fred,” Roger interrupts, from halfway across the room. He’s doing up his shirt and eyeing Paul with no small degree of dislike. “Can one of us have the mirror now?”

Freddie flaps a hand. “Well, not you, Roger, dear, you’re hardly ready for it, are you? Deacy is, though, he can have my spot.”

John, the one person who doesn’t want or really need the mirror, just raises his eyebrows and pours himself another glass.

Paul pulls Freddie away by his arm, into a more secluded corner— _more secluded_ being a relative term in a dressing room this packed, of course. “We have to talk,” he says, his eyes still jumping to Freddie’s mostly-bare chest, his throat, the completely revealed lines of his hips and dick.

“ _Do_ we?” Freddie raises an eyebrow, delighting in the game, all the more so because he knows Paul hates to be teased. “What do we have to talk about, dear? The show’s in two hours, I can’t _imagine_ —”

“I’m sure you can manage. You have a very vivid imagination,” Paul retorts. He tugs Freddie towards the door, hand almost bruisingly tight, and Freddie allows it, secretly thrilling at the manhandling.

“Freddie—” Roger starts again. He’s closer this time, and one glance at him puts a solid crack in Freddie’s brash confidence. Roger’s eyes are desperate, disappointed—in _him_ , not just Paul.

Then defiance swells hot in Freddie’s belly. How _dare_ Roger judge him? “Oh, don’t worry your pretty head, dear,” he says. “I’ll be back in a moment.”

Sensing his opportunity, Paul leads Freddie down the hallway to the little room where Ratty and the others have set up all of Brian and John’s guitars—and the mattress John insists on dragging around with him, in case he needs a kip. Freddie’s half-expecting to be thrown down on it, but instead Paul pushes him up against the door, hard; he sucks in a startled breath.

“You,” Paul says, looking him over almost coldly, “are a fucking _tease._ ”

“Am I?” Freddie’s heart beats high in his throat, pulsing hard just below his jaw.

“Mmhmm.” Paul’s thumb brushes his chin, his lips, and then pulls away when Freddie tries to taste. “If you want it,” he says, “you have to ask for it.”

Freddie fights back a smirk. Oh, Paul thinks he’s wrestling back control, but Freddie knows exactly how to get what he wants. He hooks his fingers into Paul’s beltloops, pulling him close. “Please, Paul,” he breathes, letting his head drop back against the door, exposing the long line of his neck.

“Please _what?_ ” Still, Freddie notices that Paul can’t help leaning forward, pressing Freddie into the door with his body and licking at his collarbone. Oh, yes—he’s got Paul exactly where he wants him.

“Please fuck me,” Freddie says, letting his voice pitch into a whine. Yes, desperation, that’s a good touch—Paul likes it when he begs.

“Needy little slut,” Paul says, almost admiringly. “Didn’t get it hard enough last night, did you?”

(Is it ever _hard enough_ for you? Are you _ever_ satisfied?)

(I am with Jim. He’s enough.)

(Who do you think you’re kidding? How many other men have you slept with since you met Jim?)

Freddie shakes his head, moving to grasp Paul’s hips, steadying him so he can arch into him, push their hardening cocks together. “ _You_ know how to give it to me hard enough,” he says. He nuzzles just under Paul’s jaw, breathing against him, teasing him. “You know me so well.”

(Nobody knows you. You think they’d stick around if they did?)

Paul grunts, then gives in, pushing his hands inside Freddie’s jumpsuit, his broad palms curving around his ribs, his waist. He shoves Freddie’s legs apart with his knee, pressing his thigh into his dick with just the right amount of pressure.

Fumbling, Freddie manages to get his jacket off and his stage costume peeled away to his waist. Paul’s still fully-dressed when he clutches at him, and Freddie can feel every seam in his t-shirt and jeans. The thought of being naked beneath Paul, clothed, sends a shiver down Freddie’s spine, and he moans, biting at Paul’s neck.

Immediately, Paul steps back, turning him around and pushing him face-first into the door. “Freddie,” he says warningly, “no marks, remember?”

“R-right,” Freddie agrees, breathless. He’d agree to anything to get Paul’s hands back on him; the room’s cold, with Paul only holding him by the back of the neck. He brings his hands up, places his palms on the door, hoping to present an enticing picture. “Please, darling I—I just forgot.”

Paul trails fingers down his spine, lingering at the small of his back. “Are you going to make it up to me?”

“You can put your cock in me,” Freddie suggests, arching his back helpfully.

“If you think carefully, that was already the plan, Freddie,” Paul reminds him. He does slide the jumpsuit off of Freddie’s hips, pushing it down his thighs, and Freddie drops his forehead to the door, breathing hard. “What else?”

“What do you _mean_ , what else? I just forgot!”

Paul pushes two spit-slicked fingers into him, sudden and forceful, and Freddie gasps, clenching involuntarily.

“Darling— _slower_ —”

Paul doesn’t slow. “Do you think I can do my job with a bite in plain sight, Freddie?” he asks calmly, his fingers pushing and stretching until Freddie has no choice but to yield, wincing at the sting. “Do you really think anyone will take me seriously?”

“I—” Freddie hasn’t thought about it at all, really; it’s just one of Paul’s little rules. “I don’t know, darling,” he says, unsteadily. He lets out a little, embarrassingly needy noise when Paul touches that spot inside of him, soothing the pain.

“So,” Paul continues, pulling his fingers away and swiftly replacing them with his cock, pushing inside Freddie in one long thrust.

Freddie clutches at the door, choking on him, on the spread and the burn; he doesn’t feel as in control now. His mind spins in empty, useless circles.

“How are you going to make it up to me?” Paul’s hips drag back, push in. Repeat. He takes Freddie’s waist in firm hands, dragging him into his thrusts.

There’s a seed of pleasure under everything else, and Freddie clings to that, lets it bloom slowly inside him, fed by his own helplessness. His cock had softened with Paul’s fingers in him, but it’s hardening again now, rubbing against the door. He wishes Paul would touch him.

“Well?” Paul says into his ear. His teeth close on the lobe, tugging not very gently.

“ _Fuck,_ ” Freddie groans. He tries to collapse back onto Paul, but Paul won’t allow it, instead pushing him more firmly into the door. “I don’t _know_ , darling.”

“You’re very creative, Freddie. Surely you can think of _something_.”

“I don’t know what you _want_.” Oh god, Paul’s in so _deep_.

“I know what _you_ want,” Paul says, and other than some mild strain, his voice is entirely unaffected by what they’re doing. “You want to be fucked, don’t you? That’s why you thought you could entice me, get me to do what you wanted.” He snaps his hips into him, particularly hard, and Freddie yelps, stars exploding in his eyes. “Seems only fair that you owe me twice, then, doesn’t it? Once for leaving a mark, and twice for thinking you could pull one over.”

“I don’t—I don’t know what you mean,” Freddie says unsteadily. Then Paul touches him, at long last, closing his warm hand around him, and he cries out, his head dropping back onto Paul’s shoulder.

“It doesn’t matter to me, Freddie,” Paul says, and kisses the side of his head as he works his hand, Freddie shaking in his grip. “I don’t care that you need other men to satisfy you. _Other_ men might, but I don’t. You’ll always have me.”

“ _Darling,_ ” Freddie manages, arching into him helplessly. He’s so _close_.

“Go on, Freddie, that’s it,” Paul says soothingly, and strokes him through it as Freddie comes, gasping with the intensity, clenching hard on Paul inside of him. Paul himself pulls out and comes over Freddie’s back only a moment later, and it’s not as good as finishing inside but Freddie will take it, especially considering he doesn’t have time to take a shower or a bath. Or the facilities for either, come to that.

While Freddie leans against the door, breathing hard, legs trembling, Paul digs up the tissue box—there’s always one in here, probably courtesy of Ratty—and wipes Freddie down. With his help, Freddie pulls his jumpsuit back up, and they find his jacket in a corner, luckily having safely cleared a bass guitar on the way.

Paul slides the jacket on for him and scrutinizes him carefully. “You look like you’ve just been fucked,” he says, smirking just slightly.

“Well, the audience will love that.” Freddie runs his fingers through his hair, checking that it’s still as fluffy as it needs to be. “It’s the look we’re going for.” He hesitates, then steps close to Paul, kissing him softly. “I really just forgot, darling,” he says, touching the forming bruise on Paul’s throat with his fingertips.

“I know you did, silly,” Paul says, his good humor seemingly returned now that he’s had a good fuck. He takes Freddie’s chin in his hand, holding his head still, and looks into his eyes. “Just don’t do it again, all right? Or I really _will_ be cross.”

Freddie doesn’t really know what to say, but Paul must take his silence for assent, because a moment later he releases him.

“You can make it all up to me in bed later,” he adds, slapping Freddie’s hip lightly. “Now, I’m sure the others are wondering where you got to.”

“I’m sure,” Freddie agrees. His heart is beating faster than normal, and not out of arousal.

It’s all so easy to forget, though, when they get back to the dressing room—Brian’s exasperated because there are last-minute setlist changes to consider (none of them go through), Deacy’s sullen and uncommunicative (last night’s call to Ronnie must not have gone well), and Roger’s clearly still disappointed with Freddie and upset with Paul (who is _he_ to talk when he sleeps with however many girls in each city?).

Well and truly annoyed himself now, as well as starting to ache where Paul’s been, Freddie finally exclaims, “For _fuck’s_ sake, darlings, if we all kill each other now, there’ll be no one to give this concert! Won’t _that_ solve all our problems!”

“Certainly make the taxman happy,” John mumbles under his breath.

“Oh, fuck the fucking taxman,” Freddie snaps. “I am so fucking _sick_ of hearing about taxes.”

“Steady on, Fred,” Brian says bracingly, though he hates the tax questions just as much as Freddie does and Freddie knows it.

“We can worry about that later,” Roger says hurriedly, perhaps sensing that Freddie is about to point this out. “We have a concert to worry about _now_.”

“If you would all stop being such _drama queens_ , we could just _go on_ ,” Freddie says, heated. Realizing what he’s just said, and also that by this point in the evening they’re alone in the dressing room, he throws up his arms. “And _I’m_ the queen here! Get the fuck over yourselves!”

That, finally, makes Roger laugh. “You don’t have a _monopoly_ on drama, Freddie.”

“I should,” Freddie mutters. “Now can we please just _perform?_ ”

And just like that, the fight’s over. Brian goes to get the Red Special like usual and Roger taps out a beat on the arms of his chair. Deacy, thoughtfully, brings Freddie a glass of vodka, and Freddie eagerly downs it. He can use the physical pain to enhance his performance, but he doesn’t need quite _that_ much, thanks very much.

It’s enough to keep him from limping when he runs out on stage twenty minutes later, immediately picked out by the spotlight—Freddie Mercury, center of the fucking show, bright and sharp and fucking untouchable, except for this little window in time, when he’ll let you close. When you think, for a couple of hours, that you might know him.

(But nobody really knows you, do they?)

-

Jim lays awake at night, thinking.

He can still hear that song crashing in his head—‘Bohemian Rhapsody’, that’s it. He listened to it five times in a row, that first day, then the whole album, reading along to the lyrics printed on the sleeve.

He still doesn’t understand it, and the first time he’d been very confused. In awe, but confused. It shifted so many times, became so many different songs, that he couldn’t keep up.

Freddie’s voice, though—

Freddie carried him through.

He’s never heard anything like it. Jim will be the first to admit that he knows nothing about the music scene—he sort of listens to what’s on the radio at work, but that’s it—but he’s sure he’s never heard a voice like Freddie’s. It’s raw, it’s _real_ , it pins him to his seat and tells him _listen, listen to me._ His tone is amazing, clean and pure, but so distinctive—Jim would know it anywhere—and it’s just _Freddie_ , as unique as the rest of him. He doesn’t have the right words to describe it, only that he can’t think properly when he’s listening to Freddie sing, even in a recording.

Freddie’s so fucking _talented_.

And Jim’s just… Jim. Plain, ordinary Jim.

How is any of this _real?_ How is it happening to _him?_ Why is Freddie Mercury calling up Jim Hutton in the middle of the night to tell him he misses him?

“You don’t know Freddie Mercury,” Jim tells himself out loud, with only his ceiling as witness. “You’ve hardly even met him.”

This is what he clings to—that the Freddie he knows and the Freddie Mercury he’s heard on the record are almost two different people, and he really only knows one of them. His Freddie is sweet and gentle, shy and clinging, a man who cries easily and burrows into Jim’s side immediately after having sex. Freddie Mercury, on the other hand—Jim thinks he met him at the club that very first time, and maybe once more—he’s aggressive, outrageous, in your face. It’s almost like he’s wearing bright armor, sharpened with spikes; he lets people see him, but not know him.

Then again, it’s not like Jim knows much about his Freddie either.

Can you even have a relationship with someone you don’t know?

Jim rubs his face with his hands. God, he’s so _tired_. All he does lately is think, and wonder. He wants this, badly; he’s never wanted to be with someone this much before. But Freddie’s not just anyone, and Jim has a sick feeling in his stomach that rushing into this will just get people hurt.

Well. Rushing into this more than he already has. _Falling_ more than he already has. He, at least, isn’t getting out unscathed.

Downstairs, faintly, he hears the telephone ring.

Wincing, Jim lurches out of bed, hurrying down the stairs to the hall table. Just as he reaches it, Ms. Taverner rips open her door, glaring.

“It’s all right, Ms. Taverner,” he says hastily, hand hovering over the receiver. “I’ve got it.”

“That is the third time this month,” she snaps. She points at the telephone with a trembling finger. “You _tell_ him—”

“I know, Ms. Taverner. Go back to sleep. I’ll be quiet.”

Still glaring, Ms. Taverner retreats back into her room. Before the telephone can ring again, Jim picks it up.

“Hello?”

“Darling!” Freddie says, effusive as always. Like he’s been waiting all day just to speak to Jim. “How are you?”

“All right, Freddie. Tired.”

“Oh, shit,” Freddie blurts out. “Did I call at the wrong time again?”

Jim can’t help but smile. “You aren’t the best with time, are you?”

“Oh god, darling, I’ve never been on time to anything in my life. I didn’t mean to fuck this up, though.” He sounds angry with himself. “I don’t mean to be so stupid, darling, really, I’ve been trying.”

“It’s okay, Freddie.”

“It’s _not_ okay. Did she yell at you? She always yells at me, she’s horrid.”

“She isn’t horrid,” Jim says loyally. “She’s really very kind. You’ve just caught her at the wrong time, that’s all.” To change the subject, he asks, “How has the tour been going?”

“Oh, same as always, darling.” There’s shifting and Freddie sighs, his breath crackling across the receiver. “It’s fun for a while but you do miss home eventually.”

“I can’t imagine traveling for so long,” Jim offers. He really still doesn’t understand what a tour could possibly involve, aside from a lot of concerts, which he doesn’t understand either; he’s never been to one. “But you must get to see so many wonderful places.”

“Mm, well, we don’t really have time to be tourists, darling.”

Jim frowns. “But you told me—in Japan—”

“Oh, _Japan!_ ” Freddie says, immediately brightening up. “Japan is different, dear! I just can’t help myself when I’m there. There are so many art pieces to buy, I never have enough time!”

Jim laughs, trying his hardest to be quiet. He puts his back to the wall and slides down to sit on the floor, crossing his legs. “Where are you now? I want to hear about this place that’s not as good as Japan.”

“ _Georgia,_ ” Freddie says with distaste. “The hotel is truly wretched, darling, you would be appalled.”

“Where’s Georgia?”

“It’s one of those Southern states. I don’t know—I’m no good with geography, darling, you’d have to ask Brian for one of his little maps.”

Jim turns the cord slowly around his finger. “Which one’s Brian? You’ve never really told me about your bandmates.”

“Brian’s the tall one, with loads of hair. Oh, I don’t _know_ , darling, it just seems so odd to talk about them.”

“Why? They seem important to you.”

“I don’t know,” Freddie repeats, clearly uncomfortable.

“Well, I don’t mean to push.”

“Oh, no, it’s all right, darling, really.” But Freddie seems quite happy to change the subject: “Our last concert is on the twenty-second. I’ll be back in London by Christmas.”

“Oh?”

“Yes, my mother might actually kill me if I’m not back in time.” He laughs, and Jim files this information away—he has a mother somewhere in London, then, who cares that her son is home for the holidays. “But I’ll be free after that,” Freddie says, his voice dropping. “Can I see you? Maybe the day after Christmas?”

“Of course,” Jim says, glancing involuntarily at Ms. Taverner’s door, like she might overhear what he’s saying. “I’d love that.”

“Oh, good.” Jim thinks he might detect a bit of relief in Freddie’s voice, oddly, though why, he can’t begin to imagine. He isn’t usually insecure, but in this case, it’s very hard not to be. “I can’t wait to see you again, darling,” Freddie adds, in a soft, suggestive purr.

Jim grins. He can’t say he minds the idea. “Me too, Freddie.”

Freddie giggles. “Well, darling, I’ll let you get back to sleep. I won’t keep talking your ear off, I’m not _completely_ selfish.”

_I wasn’t sleeping,_ Jim thinks, but doesn’t say. _I was thinking about you_. “Will you call me when you get home?”

“Do you want me to?” Freddie asks, surprised—but not a bad surprised, Jim doesn’t think.

“If you can,” Jim says, “then yes.”

“Well. If that’s what you want.” Jim can hear Freddie’s smile. “All right, darling, I’ll call you when I get back to my flat.”

They exchange goodbyes and Jim reaches up to set the telephone on its hook, then folds his hands in his lap. The house is quiet around him, the way it only is in the middle of the night when he’s the only one awake.

_Is this the real life?_ Freddie whispers in his ear. _Is this just fantasy?_

Jim still doesn’t know.

-

Freddie hangs up and immediately hugs his legs into his chest, smiling into his knees. His heart races to the beat of _Jim Jim Jim._

“You’re still talking to him?”

It’s Paul, fresh out of the shower, Freddie’s comb in his hand and the spare towel wrapped around his waist.

“It’s none of your business who I talk to,” Freddie retorts. Suddenly feeling exposed—though by all rights he shouldn’t, Paul only finished fucking him not thirty minutes ago—he slides down under the covers, pulling them securely up over his chest.

Paul eyes him for a moment in silence, then approaches the bed. He sits down on the edge, close enough to touch Freddie’s face, his fingers cool and slightly damp. “You know why it’s my business, Freddie,” he says, so gently.

Freddie turns his cheek away, looking fixedly at the closed curtains. “This _isn’t_ the same,” he says stubbornly.

“Freddie,” Paul sighs. “I was _there_ when David—”

“This _isn’t_ the same!” Freddie repeats, loudly.

“Saying that doesn’t make it true.”

“I don’t want to _talk_ about it, Paul!”

Paul holds his hands up in surrender. He’s still holding onto the comb. “I just want you to think this through, Freddie,” he says. “Just think about how you were after David left. Do you want to go through that again?”

The tears are coming, fucking _hell_. Freddie says nothing, just digs his nails into his palms.

Sighing, Paul leans forward to kiss his forehead. “I know, Freddie. But I already told you, didn’t I? It doesn’t matter to me what you do. I’ll still be here for you, even if this Jim fellow isn’t.”

_How do you know?_ Freddie wants to ask him. _How do you know it doesn’t matter what I do?_ I _don’t even know what I’m going to do._

And that’s the worst thing, he realizes, looking down at the truly atrocious comforter covering his legs—to not know yourself.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's funny how often the boys got asked about taxes for a while there, and how obviously sick of it they got (at least in my opinion). I don't blame them, I wouldn't want to talk about taxes either!
> 
> Anyway, I hope you enjoyed, and I will see you next time!


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Freddie arrives back in London.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Many thanks to [Living_On_My_Own](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Living_On_My_Own/pseuds/Living_On_My_Own), who is the best cheerleader. She kept me going during a couple of pretty tough weeks. Thank you for being such a sweet friend and awesome writing partner!

“Hello?”

“Hello, darling!” Freddie burrows into his pillows, smiling, squeezing his eyes shut. If he concentrates, it’s like Jim is here with him, here in the room, sitting just out of reach. “It’s me.”

“Freddie.” Jim’s voice is warm, enveloping. He’s always so kind. “Are you back in London?”

“I am back in London.” Tom and Jerry, jammed next to him in the crook of his legs, the hollow of his stomach, purring, are proof of that. “Oh, darling, it’s so lovely to be home.”

“I can’t imagine being away so long. Your cats must have missed you terribly.”

“I do talk to them on the phone while I’m away, but I imagine so, poor dears.” Freddie strokes Tom’s ears, tugging them gently between thumb and forefinger. “Still, Mary takes care of them when I’m not here, and they adore Mary.”

“Mary?”

“Oh, yes, I’ll introduce you to her someday, dear—I really don’t know where I’d be without her. She’s so kind to put up with me, you know. We’ve known each other ever so long.”

“Is she a friend?”

“Well, now, yes.” Freddie pulls at a loose thread on one of the pillows, twisting it between his fingers. “We used to go out. I broke her heart, but she’s been kind enough to stay with me—oh, she’s lovely, dear, you’ll love her.”

“Oh,” Jim says, and he sounds a little surprised. “Well—she does seem very nice.”

“Mmm, she’s the love of my life.” His eyes open, without his permission, and he’s staring out at his empty living room. Phoebe and Paul are down the hall, unpacking, but they’re quiet and focused and he might as well be alone. “Did you ever wish you could just love a woman?” Freddie asks abruptly. “Properly, I mean?”

Jim’s quiet for a long moment. Freddie can only hear his breathing. “Haven’t we all?” he asks, so gently.

“I suppose.” Freddie tugs at his hair until he feels the burn in his scalp. If he pulls a little harder, he could tear some out, see the black strands in his palm.

“Do you still wish that?”

“That I could love a woman?”

“Yes.”

“Oh, darling, only an imbecile would think I could love a woman now,” Freddie says carelessly. He lifts his free hand, studies the torn black curls caught between his fingers. With a twist of his wrist, he discards them to the carpet.

“That doesn’t mean you don’t wish you could, Freddie,” Jim says quietly.

Freddie doesn’t want to talk about this anymore. His chest is tight and uncomfortable, pressing close around his heart. “Are you free the day after Christmas?” he asks, abrupt. “I want to see you, darling.”

“I want to see you too, Freddie.”

“Then can you come?”

“Yes, I think so.” Jim’s voice is warm again, gently teasing. “I can make time in my busy schedule for you.”

A bolt of guilt cracks Freddie’s heart. “I don’t mean to ask last minute—”

“No, Freddie, really. I missed you.”

Freddie flushes and hides his face in the couch cushions again. He closes his eyes and touches his own waist, fingers lingering, imagining a larger hand there instead. “I missed you too,” he whispers, “Jim.”

-

The day after Christmas, Jim sets out for Freddie’s, hands shoved deep in his pockets to keep warm. Even the bus is chilly, people bundled up with their noses in their scarves, and Jim wishes he’d worn something warm, rather than his only almost-fashionable coat. He’s usually more sensible than this.

The bus driver has the radio on, though in the back, where Jim is, it’s thin and crackling, and he doesn’t recognize the tune. It isn’t one of Freddie’s, he’s sure of that—he’s certain he’d recognize Freddie’s voice, even through a broken speaker.

Mrs. Taverner is away, visiting relatives, and he borrowed her record player again last night to listen to _A Night at the Opera_. Trying again, futilely, to grasp the meaning behind the ever-elusive “Bohemian Rhapsody”, or just articulate to himself why hearing Freddie sing makes him sit up and pay attention.

He still hasn’t been successful—after all this time—and last night, Christmas night, he paced Mrs. Taverner’s sitting room, Freddie’s voice echoing in his skull and shivering down his spine, and cursed himself for a fool.

_If you can’t understand him, then what chance do you think you have?_

_Why did you think you could do this in the first place?_

Jim shoves the thoughts away, pushing his chin into his chest. He focuses on Freddie, on how warm he feels after talking to him on the telephone. He has to see him, has to touch him—has to remind himself that he’s real, after all this time spent just listening to his voice. Falling ever more in love with someone he can’t see and doesn’t know.

_He told you something last time, didn’t he?_

Yes—that the love of his life is a woman.

_And more, don’t you remember? That he wishes he was different. That he wishes he was straight._

_Why am I even trying?_

He thinks, for half a second, about getting off the bus and turning around, but then he remembers Freddie’s hand in his, slender fingers tucked into his broad palm so trustingly. He remembers sitting beside him on the piano bench, Freddie’s face tipped up towards his, brown eyes warm and interested in his boring stories. He remembers Freddie tucked into his side, head resting on his shoulder, mouth open as he slept.

He goes on.

When he rings the bell, Peter opens the door, the usual smile on his kind, soft face. “Jim,” he greets. “Good to see you again. Come on up, Freddie’s still getting ready.”

“You went on the tour too, didn’t you?” Jim asks, following him up the stairs to Freddie’s flat. It feels like ages since he’s been here—almost two months, he realizes, since he’s seen Freddie in person.

“I did.” Peter shuts the door to the flat behind them. “Would you like a drink?”

“Sure.” One of the cats trots up to them, tail in the air, head tilted up, and Jim recognizes Tom. He bends down, offering his hand for the cat to sniff, but Tom only gives him a cursory examination before rubbing against Peter’s leg.

“He’s been following us around all day,” Peter says fondly, scratching Tom under the chin. “They’re both the clingy sort when we get back. Jerry’s locked up with Freddie right now.”

“Poor things.” Jim watches Tom walk in small circles around Peter’s ankles, tipping his head and hip against him every chance he gets. “They must miss you all terribly while you’re gone.”

“They have familiar faces to watch them. It’s not as rough on them as it could be.”

“Right,” Jim murmurs. _Mary_.

“Well!” Peter turns to the kitchen. “You can hang your coat up there. What would you like? A beer? Freddie could be a bit.”

Jim finds the indicated rack and shrugs off his coat, hanging it carefully among others that must belong to Phoebe, maybe Freddie. “A beer sounds lovely, thank you.”

Peter hands him a bottle, and Jim leaves him to prepare dinner—he feels he’s just getting in the way, standing in the kitchen, Peter’s so practiced and efficient. He retreats to the sitting room, and though he means to just sit and wait, he’s drawn once more to the grand piano by the window. Jim sets the beer down on a side table, lingering, then, carefully, afraid that his rough, workman’s hands will damage it, he lifts the lid covering the keys, touching them with his fingertips. They’re smooth, alien.

He has a slightly better idea of what Freddie does here, now. Jim can hear him, in his head—hear the piano, hear Freddie singing—but he has no idea what it _looks_ like. There are so many keys—so many white, so many black. How do Freddie’s slender hands cover them all? What does he look like, when he’s playing? When he’s singing?

His whole body must slide into the music—Jim can’t fathom anything else. Freddie does _everything_ with his entire being, whether he’s laughing or crying or clinging to Jim, all of him so vivid, so _alive_. Jim could hear it in his voice on the record, he could _feel_ it. Maybe that’s why Freddie’s voice made his hair stand on end—maybe it was the life in it. The unmistakable stamp of _Freddie_.

Then again, maybe he was just confused.

Jim slides his fingers along the keys, careful not to press any of them. He doesn’t understand this instrument. He doesn’t understand the record he listened to; he can’t even properly explain what Freddie’s voice did to him. He’s never been to a concert and he doesn’t understand what a tour involves.

If you love someone, does it matter if you don’t understand everything about them?

_Mary understands him, doesn’t she?_

“Jim! Darling!”

Jim jumps, his hand accidentally coming down hard on the keys. He turns, ready to apologize, and instead finds himself nearly tackled by Freddie—Freddie’s arms flying around his shoulders, Freddie’s slight weight pushing his knees back into the piano bench, Freddie’s mouth pressing to his in a sweet kiss. Jim catches himself on the piano and automatically takes Freddie’s hip to steady him. He’s warm and solid and so _real_ , and suddenly Jim’s doubts mean nothing at all.

“Well, _hello_ to you too,” he says when he has his breath back.

Freddie leans back, grinning, his hands locked behind Jim’s neck. He’s wearing a pair of pale jeans and a simple yellow shirt with three buttons, partially undone, revealing the long, vulnerable column of his throat and the wings of his collarbones. “Oh, it’s so good to see you again, dear,” he says. This time, when he tips his head in, Jim meets him halfway in another kiss, and Freddie leans into him, his eyelids fluttering closed.

He fits as perfectly into Jim’s arms as he always has, tucked close and trusting to Jim’s chest. Now that he’s found his footing again, Jim takes his other hip in hand—gently, so gently, afraid, for a moment, that he’ll damage something so fragile and precious with his clumsy hands. He can feel the sharp bones of Freddie’s hips even through his jeans, he’s so slender, and Jim knows from experience that he isn’t breakable, but he _feels_ like he is.

At last, Freddie breaks the kiss to breathe, nuzzling into Jim’s cheek, his throat. His tongue darts out to taste and Jim fights back a groan.

“I missed you,” Jim says, pulling Freddie into an embrace, one arm around that tiny waist. _God_ , he’s so small. Jim could lift him up with hardly an effort.

“Me too, darling.” Freddie’s teeth close lightly on Jim’s neck, and he presses their hips together, his hardening cock rubbing against Jim’s own. “I want to show you,” he whispers, looking at Jim with hot, dark eyes, “how much I’ve missed you.”

Jim glances at the kitchen doorway, though he’s rapidly losing focus. Freddie’s warm and willing in his arms, his mouth wet on his jaw, one hand creeping down to grasp at Jim’s dick. “What about—?”

“Oh, fuck Phoebe,” Freddie says, thumbing at the button on Jim’s jeans. “Fuck dinner. I want you to fuck _me_.” To make his point, he sticks his hand down Jim’s pants, teasing at the head of his cock, and Jim jolts into him, groaning low in his throat.

“ _Freddie,_ ” he hisses, “we’re in your _sitting room_.”

“Then”—Freddie bites at Jim’s lower lip—“let’s go back to my bedroom, shall we?” Catching the look on Jim’s face, he smirks, politely removes his hand from Jim’s cock, and laces their fingers together to tug Jim down the hallway, his hips swaying provocatively. Jim realizes, with a jolt, that he isn’t wearing shoes or socks. Barefoot, he’s sweetly vulnerable, his ankles showing in flashes beneath the legs of his jeans.

Jim can’t bear to look into the kitchen to see if Peter is watching, but the moment they’re safely shut in Freddie’s bedroom, everything is forgotten—Freddie flings himself back onto Jim, kissing him passionately, arching into him, and Jim’s only human. There’s only so much he can resist.

He takes Freddie by the waist, lifting him up, and Freddie quickly wraps his legs around him, putting his full weight onto Jim’s hips and shoulders. He moans when Jim takes it, biting at his lips.

“Oh, _fuck_ , darling,” he pants. “Oh, _please_.” He cards his fingers through Jim’s hair, tilting his head, and his tongue sweeps along Jim’s teeth.

Jim walks them to the bed, somewhat unsteadily—he can hardly see where he’s going with Freddie kissing him like that—and finally manages to sit on the edge, settling Freddie on his lap. He lifts the hem of his shirt, teasing at the warm skin beneath, and Freddie whines, moving deliciously against his trapped cock.

Freddie shifts his weight, his knees tight around Jim’s hips, and rocks with more purpose, drawing a groan from Jim’s throat, one that Freddie swallows into his eager, panting mouth. His hands rest on Jim’s shoulders and in another moment he’s pushing him back, towards the bed, and Jim lets him, lets himself fall back onto the comforter.

Triumphant, Freddie pushes his hands beneath Jim’s sweater, shoving it up his chest so he can trace patterns in his stomach. “Darling, you are gorgeous,” he breathes, bending down to follow the path of his fingers with his mouth.

Groaning, Jim’s head tips back, his body straining towards Freddie’s touch. He slides fingers into his hair, gently holding but not directing, and he can feel Freddie as he moves, as he kisses and licks and nips. “Wouldn’t this be easier with the sweater off?” he asks roughly, then swears as Freddie pushes the offending garment out of the way enough to suck at his nipple.

“Mmm, probably.” Freddie doesn’t let up, though, doesn’t stop touching or teasing, his hips rocking against Jim’s without any real rhythm. He traces one finger down Jim’s sternum, all the way down his stomach to the waistband of his jeans, then slides it behind the zip and just leaves it there.

Jim jolts up into him, and Freddie rides it easily, a delighted laugh caught in his throat. He pulls away from Jim long enough to look at him, smiling.

“Aren’t _we_ eager?” he says, sliding the finger under his waistband to the hollow of his hip.

“ _Freddie_ ,” Jim groans, one hand catching at the back of Freddie’s neck, the other his waist.

Freddie smirks but sits up, Jim’s hands falling away, and, almost posing with his legs on either side of Jim, lets go of him to take the hem of his own shirt. He peels it off over his head and tosses it aside, revealing his slender, hairy chest. Leaning in again, hands braced on Jim’s chest and lower lip caught between his teeth, he presents a perfect, knowingly erotic picture.

“Well?” he whispers. “Are you going to do something about it, darling?”

Jim kisses him. He can’t help himself. When he pulls back, Freddie’s eyes are, for some reason, wide with surprise, and Jim touches his cheek, stroking the strong lines of his face with his thumb. Then he grasps his narrow hips and tips him onto his side, among the covers, mourning the loss of contact even as he sits up to pull off his sweater.

Rolling onto his back, Freddie watches him, touching himself through his jeans. His knees sway together. “You were right,” he says, running a hand absently across his chest. “It’s much better without the sweater.”

Smiling, Jim leans over him, kissing him, and Freddie moans, opening up for him beautifully, his legs falling apart. He cups Jim’s jaw in his hands, squirming beneath him until Jim lays down on top of him, careful to support himself on his elbows so he doesn’t crush him.

Freddie’s hands slide down his chest, fiddling with his button and zip. “I want these off too, darling,” he murmurs, tugging on the fabric.

“Oh yeah?” Jim puts his own hand between Freddie’s legs, cupping him with his palm, and Freddie surges up against him, gasping. “What about yours?” he asks, pressing down, rubbing Freddie’s cock delicately with his thumb. “When do I get to see you?”

“ _Fuck_ ,” Freddie hisses, shoving his hips into Jim’s hand, and again, when he takes it away: “Oh, _fuck, oh fuck, Jim_ —”

“Well?” Jim kisses him, grasping one hip to hold him still, preventing him from rubbing them together. Freddie trembles under him, his eyes opening wide, wide.

“Will you help me?” he asks, biting his lower lip again, sultry and almost shy. He moves his hands to the waistband of his own jeans and Jim sits back to watch, transfixed, as he undoes the button.

Jim touches the newly-revealed skin and Freddie shivers, his head falling back, as Jim slowly lowers the zip, tugging the jeans low around his hips. Fucking _hell_ , Freddie isn’t wearing any underwear, all Jim can see is bare skin and hard cock, laid out before him like a feast. He closes a hand around Freddie’s dick, hot and hard and weeping in his grip, and strokes it, and at once Freddie bucks into the touch, cursing.

“Oh, fuck, darling, be careful!” He grabs at Jim’s hand with both of his own. “I’ll come if you do that too much,” he says, clearly frantic.

“ _Now_ who’s eager?” Jim says, smiling, squeezing him in his hand. He watches, chest swelling with something like pride, as Freddie cries out, tossing his head. His cheeks are deliciously pink.

“ _Desperately,_ ” Freddie says. Touching Jim’s wrist with his fingers, he tilts his cheek into the comforter, looking up at Jim through dark, heavy lashes. His chest heaves as he tries to control himself. “Please, Jim. I want you to fuck me until I come.”

Jim bends down to kiss Freddie’s stomach, releasing his cock so it slaps at his chin, his neck. Moaning, Freddie squirms under him, lifting his hands to tangle in his hair.

“Oh, please, Jim, fuck!”

Swiftly, Jim stands, pulling Freddie’s jeans off his legs, and Freddie lets out an audible sigh of relief. Jim can’t help smiling.

“You’ll have to wait for me to get the lube,” he says, squeezing Freddie’s bare thigh. The muscles jump under his touch.

“Over there.” Freddie points at one of the bedside tables and pulls himself up among the pillows, watching Jim keenly. “Why are _you_ still dressed?”

“Because I haven’t had a spare second, Freddie!” Jim finally locates the much-depleted tub of lube and tosses it onto the bed before undoing his belt with practiced ease, shoving his jeans and pants down his thighs. “There, happier now?” he asks, peeling off his socks.

Freddie licks his lips. “Much.” He holds out his hands, catching at Jim’s arms to pull him on top of him, immediately tugging him down for a kiss.

There’s so much _more_ of them touching now—bare skin, tangled legs, heaving chests, hard cocks. Jim ruts against Freddie’s belly, his thigh, biting back his own groans so he can hear Freddie’s moans properly, feel them in his chest, in his throat as he kisses it. He puts a hand between them, sliding it between Freddie’s legs, teasing at him, and listens with satisfaction to the high whine that escapes Freddie’s throat.

“Ready?” he asks.

Nodding frantically, Freddie somehow comes up with the lube, shoving it at him. “ _Please_ , darling.”

Taking the tub, Jim sits back up on his knees, rubbing the inside of Freddie’s thigh until he trembles and gasps, a hand flying up to cover his mouth. “No, no, remember?” Jim says, pulling his hand away. Kissing those slender, clever fingers, turning his arm so he can press a kiss to the inside of his wrist, Freddie staring, his other hand hovering uncertainly. Jim smiles. “I want to see you.”

Hesitantly, Freddie smiles back. “All right,” he says, “if that’s what you want.”

“I do, I do want that.” Jim slicks up his fingers and carefully, carefully slides one inside, Freddie’s mouth opening around a moan. He’s so _ready_ for it, _fuck_ —tight but yielding, and so hot inside, so soft where Jim strokes him. “You’re so gorgeous,” he whispers, thrusting up to his knuckle.

“ _More_ ,” Freddie whines, “oh, _more_ , darling.” He sinks a hand into his hair, tugging, perhaps to distract himself from the stretch.

Jim rubs at his hip with his free hand, soothingly, and just watches him—watches the flush spread down his chest, the sweat bead across his skin. Slowly, he adds another finger, when he judges that Freddie’s loose enough for it, and Freddie arches his hips into the penetration, spreading his legs wider, his thighs trembling. His cock is rigidly red and weeping across his stomach. Jim’s own cock _aches_ , he’s so hard.

He slides in a third finger, but Freddie isn’t patient enough to put up with that for long. He reaches down with a shaking hand, grasping Jim’s wrist, and gasps, “I’m ready, fuck, darling, come _on_.”

Hesitating, Jim stills. “I don’t want to hurt you.”

“You _won’t_.” Freddie pulls Jim’s fingers out of himself, hissing, and seizes the lube, slicking his palms up. When he touches Jim’s cock, he almost comes on the spot, and he has to lock his muscles in place, biting his lower lip until it nearly bleeds. He’s had nothing but his own hand since Freddie left. “You can’t hurt me,” Freddie says, swinging up to kiss him. “I’m so fucking ready for you, darling.”

Groaning, Jim catches Freddie in his arms, squeezing him close, kissing him with all he has. He runs a hand down Freddie’s back, and Freddie arches into him with a moan.

“Lay down for me, then,” Jim says against Freddie’s mouth.

He feels more than sees Freddie smile. “Gladly,” he says huskily, sliding out of Jim’s grip to fall on his back, raising his arms above his head and hooking his ankles behind the small of Jim’s back. He raises his eyebrows, almost in a challenge, and he’s grinning like he can’t help himself.

Jim leans down to kiss that smiling mouth, taking his cock in hand. He pushes his hips forward, guiding the tip inside Freddie, and it’s so easy to slide all the way in once he’s started—or so hard to stop. Freddie’s perfectly slick and hot and tight around him, just as good as he remembers—better, even, for being here and real with his nails digging into Jim’s shoulders—and it’s next to impossible to keep himself from thrusting right away, though Jim manages it. He’s terrified that he’ll come right away, it’s so good, so he rests on his elbows and kisses Freddie’s throat, listening to him breathe, feeling his legs warm against his hips and his hammering heart against his chest.

“Oh, fuck, darling,” Freddie says brokenly. “Please move.”

Jim raises himself up a bit further to kiss him on the mouth. Freddie leans into it, moaning deliciously, his dark eyes fluttering closed. He’s gloriously flushed, his hair spread on the pillows like a black halo, and when Jim pulls back his hips to rock into him his head tips back and he swallows, hard.

“ _Fuck,_ ” he groans. “Oh fuck, oh _fuck_ —”

“That’s it, babe,” Jim says encouragingly, fucking him harder. His dick’s already leaking, he won’t last long, he just wants to go _hard_ , wants to make Freddie _scream._ “Let me hear you.”

Freddie whines, clutching hard at Jim’s shoulders, wrapping his legs more securely around his hips. “Fuck, _fuck,_ ” he says blindly, moving his hips against Jim’s thrusts. “Oh _fuck, Jim!_ ”

Jim lowers a hand to Freddie’s tiny waist, gripping hard, pulling him into his hips, and Freddie moans loudly, his back arching, almost unseating himself. Quickly, Jim seizes his waist with both hands, pinning his shoulders to the bed with his own, sucking a bruise into his throat. Freddie squirms, crying out and bucking into Jim.

“Oh please, please!” he says, almost sobbing. He pulls at Jim’s hair, crashing their mouths together. “Please, Jim, please fuck me.”

“Isn’t that what I’m doing?” Jim asks, panting, still rolling his hips, and Freddie tips his head back, baring his throat, his eyes squeezing shut.

“Oh god, darling, _harder, fuck!_ ”

Biting down on Freddie’s shoulder, Jim jacks his hips into Freddie’s, hard, again, again. Freddie keens high in his throat, scrabbling at his back.

“There, there!”

“God, the voice on you,” Jim pants, licking the mark he’s made with his tongue, doing his best to hit the same spot as he fucks Freddie in earnest, the bed creaking beneath them. Freddie shakes, clutching at him, moaning and crying out, his eyes half-open and glazed with pleasure, and he’s so beautiful. Jim’s cock throbs, hard, and quickly, before he loses it, he pushes a hand between them, wrapping a hand around Freddie’s weeping cock.

Freddie wails, arching up into him, apparently caught between Jim’s hand and Jim’s dick, unsure whether to fuck Jim’s fist or fuck himself on his cock. He squirms, hard.

“Come on, Freddie, you can do it,” Jim says, coaxing. He shoves himself as deeply as he can go into Freddie’s tight heat, working him steadily with his hand, flicking his thumb over the tip.

Just like that, Freddie comes, his mouth wide and gasping, his eyes squeezed shut. He seizes up inside and Jim’s helpless to do anything but follow along, thrusting into him wildly as he orgasms, his brain going white. But still, even there, in blissful nothing, there’s Freddie, calling him back—Freddie’s heaving chest, Freddie’s scent, and, when he can see again, Freddie’s warm brown eyes, looking up at him.

Breathing hard, Jim braces himself on his elbows, burying his face in Freddie’s neck, pressing open-mouthed kisses to his racing pulse. Freddie wraps still-trembling arms around his shoulders, and Jim savors the contact, Freddie’s legs loose and warm on either side of his hips and his noise in his hair.

They just lay there for several minutes as their heartbeats slow and their sweat dries. Jim kisses Freddie’s throat, the line of his jaw, and finally his mouth, and Freddie responds so sweetly, sighing into it, trying to arch even though he must be so tired. The movement causes Jim’s cock to slip out of him, and Freddie makes a small sound low in his throat.

“You all right?” Jim asks. He pulls himself up enough that he can see Freddie’s face properly, smoothing his wild hair off his forehead.

“I’m fine,” Freddie murmurs. He smiles, a little dopily, like he’s drunk. “I’m _more_ than fine. Kiss me again, darling.”

Jim obliges, slipping his tongue into his mouth, and tastes Freddie’s moan. Carefully, he turns them onto their sides, looping his arms securely around Freddie’s little waist. “There we go,” he says soothingly, kissing him again.

Freddie hooks a leg around Jim’s thigh and snuggles close. “I like this,” he says, tracing Jim’s collarbone lightly. “Don’t let go.”

“I won’t.” Jim rubs a palm at the small of his back, watching him closely. When Freddie watches him back, dazed but clearly not about to fall asleep just yet, he asks, “How was your Christmas?”

“Busy,” Freddie sighs.

“You told me you were visiting your mother?” Jim waits, his heart beating faster again, worried that he’s pushing too hard—that Freddie will push him away.

But Freddie comes closer, tucking his face into Jim’s throat. “Yes, she wanted me home for the holidays,” he says. “I think it worries her that I’m away so much. It’s not what she wanted for me.” He sighs again, breath washing across Jim’s skin.

“Oh.” Jim runs his hand up and down Freddie’s spine, rubbing away the sweat, feeling the smoothness of his skin. “It sounds difficult.”

“They never wanted a musician in the family,” Freddie mumbles bitterly, “much less one like _me_.” With an angry, bitten-off sound, he lifts his head from Jim’s neck, though he doesn’t, as Jim momentarily fears, pull away entirely. “Oh, forget me, darling,” he says. “I was in a rotten mood yesterday. What did _you_ do with your Christmas?”

“Nothing, really,” Jim admits. “I don’t have any family around here, so I just stayed in.”

Freddie frowns, his brows crinkling together. “Are your family back in Ireland?”

“Yes. I did talk to my mother on the telephone.”

Gently, Freddie reaches out to trace his cheek, cupping his jaw with his hand. “It sounds very lonely,” he says.

“So your Christmas was difficult and mine was lonely. Not the best year, eh?”

Freddie snorts and leans in to kiss him. “Well, today was better, wasn’t it?” he says meaningfully.

“Yes,” Jim agrees, smiling, and squeezes Freddie’s ass. Freddie gasps delightfully, tipping his head back as he laughs. “Today was better.”

Still grinning, Freddie tucks himself close again, pressing a kiss to Jim’s collarbone. “I missed you, darling,” he says quietly.

“I missed you too, Freddie,” Jim whispers. He pushes his face into Freddie’s sweaty curls, inhaling his unique scent. He fits so neatly in Jim’s arms that it’s difficult to imagine him anywhere else.

“You’ll have to make up for it,” Freddie murmurs.

“Make up for what?” Jim asks, startled.

“Being away,” Freddie says, like this is obvious.

“ _I_ have to make up for _your_ being away!” Jim exclaims. He finds himself smiling.

“Of course,” Freddie says. “ _I_ have an excuse. I was working.”

Jim strokes a hand down his neck, lingering on the knob at the join of his shoulders. “You’ll have to tell me more about it.”

“The tour?”

“What else?”

“When I wake up,” Freddie says. “I’m tired now. You’ve fucked me senseless, darling.” He presses his mouth to Jim’s skin. “Can you wait that long?”

Jim smiles. “I can wait until you wake up.”

“Eager for tales of excess,” Freddie says, tapping his chest with a finger, but he seems to be joking. He snuggles, if possible, even closer, resting his cheek over Jim’s heart, his breath slowing. “Don’t let go,” he says again, slowly, sleepily.

“I won’t,” Jim says, and kisses the top of his head. He hopes he’s telling the truth.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ME: Yeah, they'll hang out on the couch, watch TV, talk about Christmas...  
> FREDDIE: I'm gonna hit that.  
> ME: Can you wait until—?  
> FREDDIE: Nope.
> 
> Anyway, thanks for reading this episode of Freddie Mercury Thinks Jim Hutton Is Hot Stuff. And thank you all for sticking with me so far!


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Feelings and realizations.

He shifts, blinking bleary eyes open against early-morning sun. The room’s quiet, familiar down to its scent. This is his flat, his bed, and next to him, breathing softly against his shoulder, a man, still sleeping—Jim, his arms loose around his waist and his nose turned into the pillow. The sheets fall around his ribs, exposing his chest and upper back to pale golden rays, seeping through the curtains.

In his exhaustion, Freddie feels nothing but warmth, an ember caught inside his heart. He turns into Jim without thought, pushing his face into his throat, and Jim shifts around him with a wordless murmur. One arm lifts slightly, settles again over Freddie’s ribs. Calloused fingers brush the nape of his neck.

Freddie’s eyes droop closed.

“How is it so far, darling?” Freddie asks, unable to keep from smiling. “Have they savaged you? Maimed you for absconding with their daughter?”

“I’ll thank you not to put any ideas in their heads, Fred,” Roger retorts. His voice is odd and distant; the telephone connection isn’t great.

“Well, I assume you’re bright enough not to put me up to their ears so they can hear what I’m saying right now. _Am_ I assuming too much?”

“Oh, fuck off,” Roger says, laughing.

“Really, dear, how is it going?”

“Fine, honestly. As good as I could hope for—you know what the press says about us.”

“Mmm.”

“I think Dom must have laid some serious groundwork before I got here. God, I was nervous, but she kept telling me not to be—even as she laughed at me, I think she liked seeing me in a bit of a tizzy.”

“Speaking of your lovely Dominique, tell her that I wish her a happy Christmas, would you?”

“Yeah, ‘course, mate, she’ll love to hear from you. I’ll call you back another time when she’s here and we can both talk to you, yeah? She adores you.”

Freddie tilts his head back, covering his smile with his hand, even though there’s no one to see him. Even though it’s Roger. “Darling, now you’re just flattering me.”

“I’m not, really I’m not,” Roger insists. There’s some shifting on his end of the line, the catch of a lighter. “You _know_ I’m not, Fred. I’d worry about you stealing her away from me if I wasn’t so irresistible.”

“Oooh, confidence—I can see why she likes you.”

Roger snorts. “Well, enough about me for now. How was your Christmas? Did you bring Mary home with you?”

“Oh, my Christmas was so boring that it defies description, dear.” Shifting, Freddie pulls his knees up to his chest, shielding the emptiness in his chest. He’s crammed in among the pillows on his bed, his spine aligned with the posts of the headboard. Phoebe left him here with a cup of tea and a little tray of Mama’s biscuits, but he hasn’t touched either. “You don’t want to hear about that, really. Tell me more about France.”

Roger’s silent for a moment. Freddie can hear him take a deep drag off his cigarette, exhale. “Freddie, it’s _me_ ,” he says, finally.

Freddie closes his eyes, hugs his legs tighter. It _is_ Roger—dear Roger, who always listens, and who must know that it’s sometimes easier to say these things over the telephone, when Freddie can trick himself into thinking that he’s talking to no one at all. It’s Roger, who’s called him up especially during his trip to meet Dominique’s parents, just to check on him.

“I did bring Mary,” he says, before he can talk himself out of it. “But it’s—it hasn’t been good enough. Mama took me aside again, asked me all sorts of questions, you know.”

Roger makes a small noise to indicate he’s listening, but Freddie really doesn’t know how to go on. Doesn’t know how to articulate his mother’s small hand tight on his forearm, her voice hissing in his ear that he’s breaking his father’s heart, that he’s a disappointment to the family, that if he’d just _marry_ Mary the questions would _stop_ , no one would have to discuss _that other business_ again—

He can’t begin to find the words to describe how he’d locked himself in the bathroom and cried, as quietly as he could, muffled under the sound of the sink, before washing his face and trying to carry on. All the while feeling— _knowing_ —that everyone else present knew exactly what he’d been doing during his absence.

“I would rather have spent the night out with you,” he says instead, uselessly. Hating his childishness, his selfishness.

“Oh, Freddie,” Roger says. He sounds guilty, upset, and all over _Freddie_ , the most useless little faggot alive. “I wish you could’ve come—”

“Oh, darling, don’t take me so seriously,” Freddie interrupts, recovering some of his mask. He can’t have Roger sounding like that, not over _him_. “You know me, I’m just bored waiting for my friends to get here and I’m _dreadfully_ lonely. Your bad luck to call me up at this time.”

“Freddie—”

“Really, Roger, dear, when you get back, I’ll take both you and Dominique out on the town, how about that? We won’t come home until the sun rises!”

“Okay, Fred,” Roger says, “if that’s what you want.” He sighs, breath crackling through the receiver, and adds, “This is the last I’ll say about it, okay? But you can talk about this stuff with me, you know? And I’m sure there are other people who care about you and who would listen. If you ever want to talk.”

Freddie squeezes his own shin, hard. “Talk about what, dear?”

“I’m not gonna push you, Freddie. But seriously, I’m here anytime, all right? I love you, mate.”

( _Love_ you? Who could ever love you? Only Roger could trick himself into thinking he loves you, even as a friend—he’s so loyal.)

Freddie can’t reply, and Roger says, clearly forcing his voice lighter, “Ah, speaking of—here’s Dom! Dom, it’s Freddie, do you want to say hello?”

The bass line’s loud enough to skew the beat of his heart—even here, even in the club’s bathroom. The stall door slams behind them.

Large hands push him to his knees, and Freddie stumbles to the sticky tiles hard enough for it to hurt. He tilts his head up, blinking in the dim light. Paul’s friend—Freddie can’t remember his name—looks even bigger from this angle, thick and husky.

“Well?” he asks, sinking rough fingers into Freddie’s hair. “Get on with it. I heard you’re good on your knees, or was that all just talk?”

He’s pulling, hard. It hurts. Freddie’s fingertips are numb from drink, but instinct’s taking over—he’s practiced at this, he’s had years to perfect his technique. He may not quite remember how they got here, but he can please, he _will_ please. This is the one thing he’s good at—letting men fuck him—and they turn soft when he’s sucked or squeezed an orgasm from them. For a moment, the man’s hands in his hair are gentle.

Freddie rinses his mouth out in the sink. When he turns, Paul’s friend is gone, and he stumbles back out into the club alone. He manages to find Peter at the bar, and Peter flings an arm around his shoulders, jostling him close, shouting something that Freddie can’t hear over the music.

“What?” he calls, leaning closer.

“I said, it’s a pity Jim couldn’t come!” Peter repeats. He shouts the words right into Freddie’s ear. “You always have _such_ fun with him on the dance floor.” He waggles his eyebrows, laughing hysterically, and raises a glass of something pink. “Want one?”

“This came for you in the mail,” Phoebe says, dropping a small envelope next to Freddie’s toast.

It’s already been opened—with Phoebe’s usual efficiency, he clearly used a letter opener, the tear is so neat—and Freddie turns it over, frowning. His name and address are scrawled across the front in vaguely familiar handwriting.

“What the fuck is this?” he says.

“Open it and see,” Phoebe shouts back from the other room. He’s changing out the flowers, or at least that’s what he usually does at this time.

Pinching the envelope between two fingers, Freddie shakes it until the contents spill out over the table. There’s a folded piece of notebook paper and a polaroid photograph, which nearly ends up in the eggs. Freddie rescues it and finds himself looking at a lovely orange cat, staring haughtily at the camera. It’s sitting on top of a garden wall, tail tucked neatly around its paws, and Freddie can’t help touching the shiny photo paper, like maybe he can feel the cat’s thick fur.

With much more care, he sets the picture down, then picks up the note.

_Freddie—_

_Here’s the cat I was telling you about. I finally managed to get a picture of him yesterday. I think he knew I had a camera because he looked right at me. Maybe he knew the picture was going to a true cat lover!_

_Talk to you soon, Jim_

Freddie can’t breathe. His hand shakes, and he puts Jim’s note down before he can drop it, staring at the letters until they blur. Jim’s hand formed those words; Jim’s fingers folded that paper up and slipped the picture inside. He remembers Jim’s voice in his ear, over the telephone, talking so sweetly and so gently as Freddie closed his eyes, tears leaking through his lashes.

He’s on the verge of something—there’s a word, just on the tip of his tongue, but he bites it back, forces it away. He’s terribly afraid.

Carefully, he places the picture back inside the note and the note inside the envelope, and wipes his eyes with the back of his hand. Phoebe’s picking at the vase of flowers by the piano when he emerges and doesn’t turn around, letting Freddie pretend he slips back to his bedroom unseen.

There, he digs around in one of the bedside tables, at last coming up with a small lacquer box. It’s been full of follies before, though just now it’s empty except for a yellow ribbon. Freddie sets the envelope inside and twists the ribbon around his finger, silk-smooth and slippery. If he lets his eyes drift shut, he can picture Jim behind him—a hand at his waist, lips on his neck. He could tip his head back and Jim would hold him close. Wrap him up in his arms and keep him safe.

Pressure. Pulled hair, torn. Choking. Tears.

_If you cry, they’ll all know._

He’s suffocating. He can’t speak.

_Are you going to be a good boy?_

God, anything, _anything._ (Anybody.) Go limp, slacken the jaw. He closes his eyes. Think of something else, like the bright sun outside, the humid air sticking to his skin. The hands in his hair trail sparks of pain in their wake.

Please, oh God, oh God, don’t let it always be like this—

_That’s a good boy. That’s it._

Good—to be good, to be _right_ , to satisfy. Such alien sensations, only found here, his knees in the dirt. What he wouldn’t sacrifice to be like that all the time.

If only he could _breathe_ —if it didn’t hurt so much, the pressure. The hot autumn insects buzzing in his ears.

_This is what you need, isn’t it, Bulsara? Let me help you._

It’s so dark, like the sun’s gone out. He can still hear the younger boys playing football in the distance, their shouts of laughter settling hard on his shoulders, pushing him down. There’s damp earth under his palms.

_Lovely boy. You can keep a secret, can’t you?_

His father’s thundering voice, swelling on the horizon. His mother’s cold hand cracking against his cheek.

_I can keep a secret,_ he says, soundlessly. The rain’s coming. He can smell it, the lightning in the air. _I’m good at keeping secrets._ A lie, but one that bursts out of him with nervous excitement. Fuck, he’s going to be sick. He _is_ sick, late at night in the dormitory, hand braced on the wall.

He can’t breathe. He’s light as air, though there’s no air inside him. He’s so light but he sinks, inexorably, into the dirt. There are roots under his nails.

_I knew you would be._

His stomach is empty. His stomach is full, straining. He’s sick over the side of the boat, trembling hands braced on the rail. At home, his father waits with hard eyes and his mother sits across the table, tight and distraught. He sleeps in a cold bed he doesn’t recognize, pulling at his hair, tears soaking his pillowcase.

_If you cry, they’ll all know._

He can’t breathe, he can’t breathe, he can’t _breathe—_

_Freddie?_

Water closes over his head. _Swim, you little fuck, you fucking faggot, it’s not that fucking hard—_

“Freddie!”

He crashes into wakefulness, surging into the dagger of awareness like a defeated samurai. It’s very dark. Next to him, he can just pick out the shape of a large man, leaning over him, a broad, gentle hand on his wrist.

“Oh,” he says, the sound punched out of him. With it, the dam breaking, come the tears, scalding hot on his cold cheeks. He clutches at the hand, the arm, curling towards warmth and safety, and he knows he shouldn’t cling, he _knows_ it—

_Fuck’s sake, Freddie, not more tears. I’m not your mother, fuck, get off me. Go wash your face or something._

—but he can’t _stop_ himself. He’s split open; he can’t hold himself together on his own, he _can’t_ , it’s _impossible_. He’ll bleed out, here in the dark, and nobody will even notice.

“Freddie,” the man says again, this time clearly shocked. Freddie recognizes Jim’s voice, vaguely remembers tumbling into bed with him after a late night out, and clutches harder. “Fuck, Freddie,” Jim murmurs, and Freddie, trembling, bursts out:

“ _Please_ don’t p-push me away, darling, I—”

Jim shushes him, kindly, and gathers him close with both arms, tucking him into his chest. He’s so warm, his hand combing through Freddie’s hair so gentle.

Freddie’s sobbing, suddenly, digging his fingers into Jim’s arms. There are great, brutal swells inside him, like the sea, just as frightening and mysterious, and he’s carried along, helpless, crying into the hollow of Jim’s throat. Clinging like a fucking child. Crying like one too. Shame flares through him, discernable through the maelstrom of feeling.

“You’re okay,” Jim says soothingly, holding the back of his head softly in one broad palm. Keeping him close. “Shhh, Freddie. Breathe with me, yeah?”

Breathing is impossible, and Freddie shakes his head frantically. Surely Jim knows that?

“No, go on, you can do it. I know you can.” There’s pressure on the top of his skull, not hard, only sweet and gentle, and Freddie realizes that Jim’s kissed him. “Come on, baby, please?”

_God_ , he’s so perfect. Maybe, if Jim crawled into Freddie’s chest, if Freddie could keep him there forever, he wouldn’t have these gaping holes, these open wounds. Freddie lets out a shuddering breath, and it’s trapped in the tiny space between them. Humid, like jungle air.

“Just breathe with me,” Jim whispers. Freddie can feel his voice thrumming in his chest, and it’s as soothing as Jim’s arms around him, holding him close.

He isn’t alone. He _isn’t alone._ Jim’s so strong, and he smells so good, and he’s—still _here_.

_I love you,_ Freddie thinks. The knowing settles in his bones, just like that, the moment he’s given it thought— _I love you, Jim. I love you, I love you._ In among everything else, the words don’t frighten him, not this time. The sky is blue; Brian’s hair is curly; Freddie loves Jim. It’s easy, deceptively so, maybe, like releasing a tense muscle, ignoring how it will ache later.

And this will hurt. _Fuck_ , it’ll hurt, when he loses this too.

“There you go,” Jim says, his face in Freddie’s hair. Oblivious to the love in Freddie’s heart. The fear. “Just breathe, you’ve got it.”

Freddie rests his cheek over Jim’s heart. He’s tired, and his tears are slowing. Jim’s palm, smoothing up and down the line of his spine, lulls him, gentles him. He’s so kind. If he’s bothered by Freddie crying all over his chest, he doesn’t say anything.

“What happened?” is what he does say, a bit later. Carefully, he winds one of Freddie’s curls around his finger.

Freddie’s eyes burn, lids drooping heavily. With effort, he forces them open, looking at the column of Jim’s throat in the darkness. “Nightmare,” he says. He’s hoarse from crying.

Jim’s quiet for a moment. “Do you want to talk about it?”

_No,_ he’ll say: _It’s nothing, darling. I’m tired._

He shifts, tucking his arms between their chests, wrists folded up like a pharaoh of old. Jim’s hand smooths his hair back, unsticking the strands from the drying tears on his cheek, tucking them behind his ear. All he can hear is Jim’s soft breathing.

“Do your family know?” he hears himself asking. “About you, I mean?”

Jim’s hand falls from his hair but rests again at his waist, hugging him close. Enveloping him. “We’ve never talked about it,” he says, and Freddie can hear the old pain in his voice. “But yes, I expect they do.”

“My parents have known since I was sixteen.” Freddie traces Jim’s collarbone with one finger, feeling him swallow against his knuckles. “I was kicked out of my boarding school when the staff there found out, and they had to take me back. They were…” He pauses, thinking. “It was worse than furious. They were heartbroken, I suppose.”

Jim’s just quiet, listening. Giving him space, even as his fingers comb through Freddie’s hair, gently working out the tangles.

“Are your parents religious?”

“Most people in Ireland are,” Jim says, smiling slightly. It’s not a nice smile. “We’re Catholic in my part of the country. What about yours?”

“They’re Zoroastrian.” When Jim looks at him blankly, he says, “Oh, it’s not time for a theological discussion, surely?”

“I don’t know what that _is,_ ” Jim confesses, and he hugs Freddie close so he can hide his face in his hair. “I don’t think we have any Zora—Zoro—”

“Zoroastrians.”

“Yes. I don’t know if there are any in Ireland.”

“I’ll tell you all about it sometime, dear, when you’re ready to be bored silly.” Freddie runs his fingertips along the muscles in Jim’s shoulders. “Anyway,” he says quietly, “I’m sure you understand. They think I’m throwing my soul away—consorting with devils, all that. My mother cried when I came home. I think—” The words stick in his throat, but finally he forces them out: “I think they knew all along. That’s why they sent me away.”

“Where did they send you?”

“A boarding school in India.” His throat is burning again, tears prickling in his eyes. _Silly bitch, still crying about missing Mama_. “I saw them on holidays,” he manages, with tolerable composure.

“God, Freddie,” Jim whispers. “I can’t imagine.”

“Oh, it wasn’t so bad, darling. I learned how to suck cock there and _that’s_ a valuable education.” He closes his eyes. “They know I haven’t changed. They ask me about it—without saying the words, you understand, but we all know what we’re talking about. They’ll ask me if I’m—if I’m still—” He has to stop, catch for breath that’s hard to come by.

Soft lips press to his forehead. He feels the scrape of stubble. “I’m sorry, Freddie.”

“ _You_ didn’t do anything,” Freddie says, forcing lightness into his voice. If he acts cheerful, dismissive, it will become true, it _has_ to, just from sheer repetition. “You’ve been just lovely, darling.”

“ _Freddie_.”

“Oh, dear, we were talking about something serious, weren’t we?” Wriggling, he pulls himself up to face Jim and, tracing his cheek with one hand, leans in to kiss him. Just that eases him—reminds his body of other pleasures, ones that he aches for even now. “And now I’ve ruined it.”

“Whatever you want to talk about, Freddie, I’m fine with it.” Jim kisses him, deeply, sweetly, and Freddie melts into his embrace.

“Maybe I don’t want to talk,” he breathes, finding out Jim’s bottom lip so he can suck on it.

“You’re insatiable,” Jim says, but he’s smiling. Freddie can feel it against his jaw.

“I’ve been called worse things.” With a tug, Freddie pulls Jim on top of him, wrapping his arms around his neck. “Come on, darling, I need you.”

Jim kisses him, slipping his tongue into his mouth, and just when Freddie’s squirming and arching against him he pulls back, leaning up on his elbows. The broad details of his face are picked out in the dim light filtering through the curtains—forehead, cheekbones, jaw, eyes. Even in abstract he’s beautiful, and Freddie has to take a deep breath to keep himself from bursting into tears.

Jim opens his mouth to say something, but Freddie seizes his face and pulls him down into another kiss. He can’t bear to hear anything more—he’s raw just from Jim looking at him, studying him with those soft eyes, gleaming in the dark.

_I love you,_ he wants to say. _Stay with me. Say you love me too._

He manages to keep quiet, except for moans and gasps, begging Jim for more. Begging him to fuck him harder, to _take_ him—and Jim does take him but in his own way, slowly and sweetly, their hands laced together, Jim’s thumb rubbing the side of his wrist soothingly. Freddie cries, the tears sliding down his temples into his hair, and Jim kisses them away. His lips are soft, pressed to Freddie’s brow.

“You’re all right, sweetheart,” he whispers. “Just let go. I’ve got you, that’s it.”

Freddie clings to him in the dark, shaking, and Jim gathers him up in his arms. He’s surrounded, completely at Jim’s mercy, and Jim cradles him so gently. It’s the next best thing to being loved, and still, selfishly, Freddie wants to hear the words.

_Do you love me? Can you love me, even for a moment?_

Jim kisses him.

Freddie closes his eyes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My love and thanks to [Living_On_My_Own](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Living_On_My_Own/pseuds/Living_On_My_Own) and every one of you who read, commented, or left kudos on this during my absence. If you want to know What Was Up, you can read a post on my Tumblr [here](https://oatrevolution.tumblr.com/post/636693732615503872/hi-i-recently-read-your-story-this-dream-was-me). TL;DR, just rest assured that I will never abandon this fic, even if I'm a bit slower to update than usual!


	11. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Neon and baby blue, handkerchiefs and tissue paper. A club, a hospital, a couch.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> FIRST: Please pay attention to the updated tags.
> 
> SECOND: This chapter owes its existence to several people. A huge thank you to the lovely [Aboutnothingness](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Thesherlockholmes/pseuds/Aboutnothingness) for volunteering (unasked!) to be my beta. Another big virtual bouquet to [freddieofhearts](https://archiveofourown.org/users/freddieofhearts/pseuds/freddieofhearts) for her services as a Brit-picker. Both of them are amazing and you should go read their work ASAP because it is all gorgeous! And, as always, my eternal love to every one of you who left comments, kudos, or asks on my Tumblr. Thank you all.

**Spring, 1978**

“Freddie?”

He lifts his head, blinks his eyes open. Pale light slips past the rims of his sunglasses, aggravating his hangover.

“We’re here.” It’s Phoebe, sitting next to him in the back seat. Smoothly, he hands Freddie a bottle of water, the cap already undone and removed. A profusion of blue gift bags crowds his feet, tissue paper reaching to his knees.

“We’re here,” Freddie echoes. Right. Of course. He can see the bloody great hospital out the window of the Rolls, it’s hard to miss.

He tips down some water—just some sips, really, he hasn’t been able to keep anything down this morning—and pushes the bottle back towards Phoebe. He wishes it held something stronger, but there’s nothing like that here, not now. “Fuck,” he groans, pushing a hand through his hair, artfully tousling it as though there’s anyone here he needs to impress. “Let’s fucking do this.”

Phoebe exits the car first, collecting gift bags as he goes, and Freddie follows, keeping his head down, his eyes covered by the sunglasses. It hurts to stand, to walk, but by now he is well-versed in pretending he’s not in pain. Some people look twice at the entrance and the receptionist casts quick glances at him as she consults the registry, supposedly looking for Veronica’s room number. Freddie pretends not to see it, pretends that none of it is happening, even as his skin crawls and his scalp itches. He can’t help touching his face, feeling the dark bags under his eyes, hidden behind the dark glasses. At last, the receptionist either locates Veronica’s number or has had enough of gazing into the ashen face of celebrity—she gives them the room number, lets them up.

Sitting outside the room, smoking, is Roger, legs flung out and crossed at the ankle. “You’re late,” he observes, pulling the cigarette away to exhale a puff of smoke into the hall.

“Last-minute shopping, dear, I wasn’t satisfied with my present.” Freddie waves his hand as he comes to a stop, some small, shameful part of him glad for the delay. Anything, _anything_ to avoid the door just beyond Roger’s shoulder, to place his hand upon the knob one minute later, or two. He’s aware that he’s only postponing the inevitable but cannot manage to stop himself.

Roger eyes Phoebe, who is laden with blue bags. “You’ve bought enough presents for all the babies in this ward, Fred.”

“Oh, shove off, the little thing deserves the best and you know it.” Turning, Freddie selects one of the smaller bags and takes it from Phoebe, holding it like a peace offering, or a weapon. Both, perhaps, the distinction between the two too fine to contemplate at the moment. “What are _you_ doing out here anyway?”

“Nabbing a smoke,” Roger says. He places the cigarette in his lips, speaks around it: “No smoking around the baby. Bad for it, apparently.”

Freddie doesn’t question this obvious bullshit, and in turn Roger allows Freddie to clutch his blue bag in a white-knuckled fist without commenting.

What he does say is, “They’ll be happy to see you, presents or no presents.”

Scoffing, Freddie tosses his head—regrets it immediately, now his vision is spinning and he wants to vomit—and collects himself by virtue of Phoebe’s hand on his elbow. “Of _course_ they’ll be glad to see me,” he manages. “I’m Freddie fucking Mercury!”

Last night, sometime in the smallest hours, he locks eyes with a man on the dance floor. He’s big, rough, hairy, with great thick hands, and Freddie immediately wants to know what it would feel like to be beneath him.

A whisper in Paul’s ear, a crook of the fingers, and the man comes over, though he doesn’t look impressed to be summoned. Paul then whispers into the man’s ear, presses something into his hand—pills, a drink. The man knocks it all back, somewhat mollified, and takes a seat by Freddie’s side. His eyes rake over him, lingering on his legs, his waist.

“So,” he says bluntly, “you’re that singer, yeah?”

Freddie laughs, trying not to think of—anything. Anyone. “Does it matter who I am?” He leans into the man’s side, hand trailing along the outside of his thigh.

The man grabs his wrist and holds his arm still. “Not just anybody can wave me over like a fucking dog.”

“But I’m _not_ just anybody.” Freddie smiles at him, carefully close-lipped, flutters his lashes. “I’m a good time, darling, ask anybody here.”

He opens the door, heavy, leaden feeling congealing low in his gut, and the occupants of the hospital room turn as one to look at him. There’s Dominique, standing by the window, gloriously outlined by the morning sun; Brian, mysteriously Chrissie-less, sitting on the only provided chair; Veronica, exhausted and spent in the bed; and John standing beside her, a little pinkish swaddled thing in his arms.

“Darlings!” he exclaims, pushing forward, through their stares, through his own roiling stomach. He waves the blue bag before him like a shield as he advances— _see? I belong here, just as you do, I have a place, I’m not—I’m not really—and if I was—_

“Freddie,” Veronica says, a warm smile lighting her wan features. She reaches out with one hand and Freddie rushes to take it. Amnesty.

“Ronnie, dear, you look radiant,” Freddie lies, bending to kiss her hand like she’s a princess in a fairytale, and she giggles. “This is for you,” he adds and shoves the bag at her. “And those.” He points to Phoebe, standing quietly in the doorway. “I just could _not_ decide what to get for you—for the little one—oh, is that him?”

“That is him,” Veronica replies, unnecessarily. She looks over at her husband and her new baby son with clear adoration.

“Michael,” John says. He steps closer to Freddie and tips the small swaddled thing so he has a better view of the equally small face. The eyes are shut; it appears to be asleep. John holds it so easily, so naturally, like he isn’t the least afraid of dropping it—and he probably isn’t, this isn’t his first.

“Hello, little Michael,” Freddie coos. Tentatively, he touches the blankets with one finger and, when the baby doesn’t immediately start to cry, wiggles the finger with more confidence, like he’s seen women do at the shops, back when he used to go to that sort of thing. “Oh, what a lovely, precious little thing! Such a dear little face.”

“Thank you,” Veronica says. John doesn’t say anything, but he smiles, which is near enough.

“Isn’t he the sweetest?” That’s Dominique, approaching from the window to stand by Freddie’s side, leaning in to get a closer look at the baby. She smells of vanilla and tobacco and her hair brushes Freddie’s shoulder. “So even-tempered—he’s hardly cried at all in all the time we’ve been here.”

As if on cue, Michael’s tiny face screws up and he lets out a thin wail, trying to kick his feet in his blankets.

“Oh—” Freddie says, stepping back, “oh—”

“Oh, hush, _mon chéri,_ hush,” Dominique says, at the same time Veronica murmurs, “John—”

Freddie stumbles towards Phoebe, an island of calm in this sudden chaos, and hovers anxiously as he sets down his bags and the baby changes hands from John to his wife. It’s so small, even in Veronica’s fine-boned hands, but squirming and vividly alive, crying out for comfort, for Mama, for who knows what—

“He’s hungry,” Veronica diagnoses.

“We’ll be outside, then,” Brian says. He unfolds himself from the chair—always a great production—and smiles at mum and baby, a small, tense thing. He seems even thinner and more hunched than normal, all crumpled up. “Roger could surely do with some company.”

Veronica makes a vague, affirmative sort of noise. She’s fidgeting with her hospital gown, moving Michael about on her chest, her arm curled protectively around him.

Freddie grasps at Phoebe’s arm, hardly feeling his own hand. Luckily, Phoebe understands without him having to say a word.

He never does find out the man’s name.

There’s drinking. Several lines of coke. Some dancing, but not much. More drinking.

“What’s the occasion?” someone asks him at one point. Freddie can’t remember who he is or why they’re talking, but they’re both drinking the same cocktail.

Freddie laughs, loudly. _One of my friends just had a baby. Little Deacy, God, he’s a father again, and Brian soon to be one—_

“Do I look like I need an occasion, darling?”

Then the big man is at his side, pulling him away. “You called me over, you fucking talk to me,” he says, his hand tight on Freddie’s upper arm.

The room swirls around them. The numb burn inside the nose, numbness at the extremities. The hand on his arm numbly bruising. The swirling inner tide numbed flat and dull. Everything, numb.

_I love—_

No.

(You can’t love anything.)

Freddie vomits in a dingy hospital bathroom, Phoebe standing guard at the door—nothing coming up, not really, mostly bile and the water he’d sipped at earlier, but he heaves and heaves, his body convinced that there’s _something_ in there that must come up, _now_. Thoroughly exhausted, head aching, he rests his forehead on his arm, braced on the loo roll dispenser. Hot, frustrated tears dribble down his cheeks.

Weak. Always, always weak. Crying on the floor of the gent’s like a fucking girl, Christ, typical—

The stall door opens and Phoebe crouches down beside him, huge and soft and gently concerned, producing one of his many handkerchiefs from his pocket. “There we are, dear, you’re all right,” he murmurs, dabbing at Freddie’s face. “Just breathe for me, can you do that?”

_Shhh, Freddie. Breathe with me, yeah?_

_No, go on, you can do it. I know you can. Come on, baby, please?_

_Just breathe with me._

All at once, Freddie sobs. He squeezes his eyes shut, tries to trap the sound behind his hands—useless, as ever, it gets out anyway, and echoes on the tile. Wet, pathetic noise. A baby sound.

“Oh, Freddie,” Phoebe whispers, one large, soft hand resting on Freddie’s shoulder. He squeezes gently, and Freddie turns into him—crashes into him, rather—and flings his arms around his shoulders, burying his face in his neck.

He’s getting tears and spit and snot all over Phoebe, but Phoebe never seems to mind. He just strokes Freddie’s hair and murmurs kind nothings: “You’re all right, Freddie, it’s all right. Just cry it all out, sweetheart. Shh, that’s it. You’re doing so well.”

All lies, Freddie knows, but kind ones, and Phoebe’s so soft and so gentle—so like a mother—that before he’s even realised it Freddie starts to calm, the sobs turning to whimpers turning to little snuffles. He stays hidden against Phoebe, still leaking the occasional tear, and wishes, with all his heart, that he could disappear.

“There you are.” Phoebe rubs between his shoulders soothingly. “Chin up, now, let me clean you up a bit.”

Freddie obliges and Phoebe rubs at his cheeks with the handkerchief, so gentle, not pressing too hard. He’s had a lot of practise.

“S-sorry,” Freddie manages. He tries to wipe at his own eyes—tears still caught in his lashes, still occasionally slipping free, fuck—but Phoebe stops him.

“No, let me do it, that’s it. Close your eyes, now—there.” Phoebe hums, satisfied, and combs his fingers through Freddie’s hair, bringing it back to its usual artful tousle. “Do you feel well enough to talk to them a bit longer or should we just go home? See the cats?”

“I’ll—I’ll visit a bit longer.” He’s not sure he can, in all honesty, but he’s spent so much time hiding in the loo already—and he upset the baby before—and he has to support John, he _has_ to, he’ll never forgive himself if he reveals himself to John for what he really is _now_ : a useless, hysterical queer with bruises on his hips who just spent fifteen minutes throwing up and crying in the toilet.

“All right.” Phoebe picks his sunglasses up off the floor and hands them back to him. “Let’s wash your hands, then, when you’re ready.”

How they get back to his flat, Freddie has no idea. There’s a gap in his memory, made up only of vague sensations: bright colors among the darkness of the club, the back seat of his car, giggling as Paul opens the door to the flat. Hands on him at all times, forcing him inside his body when he might have just floated away.

Things become clearer when they’re on his bed—his goal all along, wasn’t it? Wasn’t this what he wanted?

“Stop,” he gasps. His arm is all twisted up behind his back, an only vaguely Vaseline-smeared finger just withdrawing. “Stop, it—it hurts—”

The man doesn’t respond. Maybe he didn’t hear, or maybe Freddie didn’t speak after all—maybe he only thought it, those words you don’t say out loud— _what are you, a virgin, come on, you can take it—_

Hot, panting breaths in his ear, the head of a thick cock pushed against him, and then he’s speared open, and he bites down on the sheets to muffle his pained cry. Fuck, fuck, _fuck_ it hurts, he feels every inch like a knife, and squeezes his eyes shut around tears.

_Please, please, it hurts—_

_You want to be a good boy, don’t you?_

His erection has flagged completely, if it was ever there at all, but the man behind him has no such problems. He releases Freddie’s arm to seize his hips, fucking him with deep, brutal thrusts. The pain doesn’t subside, but Freddie can adjust to it, can set his knees and brace himself against each new wave.

“Fuck, you’re tight,” the man groans at last. “Fuck, yeah, spread your legs—that’s it—” He climaxes, spurting hot liquid deep inside, and Freddie has a sudden, terrible vision of Veronica, hugely pregnant, resting her ankles on John’s lap. He cries out, a thin, trembling sound, utterly involuntary.

The man is up and off the bed almost immediately. Freddie can hear him clattering around in the bathroom as he curls up on himself, shaking, fluids leaking out of him. Wasted semen, a little Vaseline, blood. The perversion overwhelms him, suddenly—the disgusting desire to take it all inside him, to waste it, when he can have no children—he wilts in the face of a woman and he has no womb himself, he hates himself, he _hates_ himself—

He deserves this pain, the burn inside him. He deserves the sleepless night that follows, when the man leaves to go home and Freddie is left alone in his bed, crying as quietly as he can into his pillows.

(Who could ever love you? You know you have always been the Arch Poof, the degenerate among degenerates.)

“You ever going to take those glasses off, Fred?”

Freddie glares at Roger as best he can, but luckily nobody else pursues that line of inquiry.

“Ronnie loves the presents, Freddie,” John says instead.

“Oh, I hope so, darling.” Freddie quickly steps forward to hug John—their little Deacy, so grown-up in this way. “When does she get to go home?”

“Not for another few days yet.” A shadow crosses John’s face. “We’ll have a bit of time to spend together before the tour.”

“Oh, that’s not until April, dear!” Freddie flaps a hand, anxiety rising in his chest. “He’ll have grown so much by then.”

“Still,” Brian mumbles, “with recording out of the country—”

“Yes,” John agrees.

“It’s those fucking taxes, darlings, you know—”

“Of course we _know_ ,” John says sharply. “It makes _sense_ , I just—”

Dominique pokes her head out the door suddenly, a frown on her expressive face. “Keep it down, would you?” she hisses. “We’ve just gotten him back to sleep!”

Freddie seizes on the opportunity. “I hate to leave you, dears, but I really must go,” he says, casting about for Phoebe, who comes up to his side at once, smiling genially. “More errands to run.”

“I’ll go with you,” Brian says. He’s still standing, all crumpled, against the wall, like a piece of paper someone’s thrown away. “Chrissie’s probably wondering where I’ve got to.”

“Tell Veronica that I look forward to seeing her with both boys, would you, darling? I’ll have a special present for Robert next time I see him.”

John smiles—an acknowledgment—and shakes Brian’s hand, though he allows Freddie to hug him again. Roger is lighting another cigarette and he waves to them, the flame dancing in his eyes.

“I suppose Dom must be on him about having a baby,” Freddie says in the lift, staring vaguely at the doors. He’s not entirely aware that he’s spoken until Brian responds.

“She is,” he says gloomily. “They were having a bit of a row about it until John threw Roger out.”

What a group they all are, Freddie thinks—and what an introduction to them poor little Michael has had. Thank goodness he won’t remember any of it. He feels the tiniest bit better about crying in the loo.

“And how is Chrissie, darling?” Freddie asks. “How is she handling—well, all of this?”

“She’s sick a lot.”

“Oh, Phoebe makes wonderful soup for that—don’t you, Phoebe? We’ll have some sent over.”

“It’s not difficult,” Phoebe promises to Brian’s slightly alarmed glance.

“Yes, it’s a lovely broth. She must have some.” The lift doors open, and Freddie follows Phoebe out, saying to Brian, “I won’t take no for an answer, dear, I _will_ send it.”

A small smile tips up the corners of Brian’s mouth. “All right—all right! I’ll look out for it.”

They say goodbye at the front doors and split up, Brian heading for his car and Freddie and Phoebe the Rolls. It’s much more spacious inside without all the blue bags.

Freddie leans his head back against the seat, closing his eyes. Phoebe shifts beside him, giving the driver directions in his soft voice, and then asks, “Freddie, how are you feeling?”

How is he feeling? He’s feeling—he’s feeling—

“Tired,” he says. It comes out like a whine. _Hurting,_ he doesn’t say: _In pain._ But Phoebe will know that already.

Phoebe’s hand rests gently on his forehead, taking his temperature, and when it comes away, it brushes his fringe aside. “You should rest,” he says gently. “What would you like to do?”

_I want to sleep, but not alone. I want to eat something, but keep it down. I want to be with someone, but be loved._

“I don’t know,” he says. Small, childish.

There’s a pause, and then Phoebe says, hesitantly: “Do you want me to call Jim?”

 _Jim_.

Freddie turns his head away, towards the window. Tears spill again, and he wipes furiously at his face. He hasn’t seen Jim in a week, not since he realized that he—well. “No. Yes. I—I don’t know.”

How foolish would it be, to see Jim again? He only wants things that he can’t have, with Jim, because why should Jim want him—why should Jim want to stay with him—

But he _is_ tired, and in pain, and just the sound of Jim’s name has called up a powerful _wanting_. Wanting for peace, for ease. For those moments of love, or at least moments when Freddie can pretend that love exists.

Phoebe takes his hand, pulling it away from his face. “Use this,” he says, giving him another handkerchief. “I’m sorry, Freddie. I didn’t mean to upset you.”

“I’m not—upset,” Freddie says automatically, even though he’s in tears and this is clearly a lie. He dabs under his eyes with the handkerchief and tips his head back, sniffing hard. It _hurts_ , sitting like this. The dull ache in his shoulder where it was pulled back. The burn inside, where the man was, where he tore (foolish, should have prepared himself, should have thought ahead, anything—). His head hurts too, and Jim would make it all better, he _would_ —Freddie doesn’t know how, but he’s certain of this. “I do want to see Jim,” he admits. “I—I do.”

“All right,” Phoebe says, soothing. He takes Freddie’s free hand in his own, squeezing gently. “You take a bath when we get home and I’ll ring him up and see if he can come. All right?”

Freddie nods. There are more tears, but the tight knot inside him is easing.

Broad fingers in his hair, softly stroking. The television in the background, playing on, ignored. He turns his cheek into Jim’s thigh, sighing, and slides his own hand through Jerry’s fur. He’s warm, wrapped in a blanket, and he feels soft and loose, any pains faded to slight aches beneath Jim’s gentle hands.

When he opens his eyes, Jim’s looking down at him, something like fondness on his broad, handsome face. He squirms with embarrassment, smiling before he can stop himself. “What is it, darling?”

Jim smiles too. “Nothing. I was just—are you feeling better?”

“With you here? Always.” It’s a reflex, flirtatious response, but in this case, a true one. Freddie reaches up to trace the line of Jim’s jaw, marvelling that he can do this, that he’s brave enough. “Thank you very much for coming all this way to see me, dear.”

“It’s only forty minutes.” Jim turns his head, kisses his fingers, and Freddie snatches his hand away, giggling. “But of course I’d come, Freddie. I like being with you.”

Freddie turns away, smiling and blushing, pleased beyond words. His heart beats high in his throat. “Well,” he says finally, when he can speak again, “I like being with you too, darling. Jim.”

“I’m glad. Tell Jerry I like visiting him too, would you?”

“Of course!” Freddie rubs one of Jerry’s ears and whispers loudly, “Jim says he loves you, Jerry.”

Jim laughs, his whole body shaking with it, and Jerry glares at them both, hugely offended. “I didn’t say that!”

“You did! I interpreted. Everyone loves cats, especially _my_ cats, because they are perfect angels.”

“Well, that’s true.” Jim’s fingers resume their path through Freddie’s hair. He’s smiling down at Freddie so warmly. “All right, then. Yes, I love Jerry.”

“See?” Freddie says to Jerry, still in that same ostentatious whisper. “I told you. I’m—” His heart stops up his voice for a moment, and he should take that second to think about what he’s doing, but he’s been seized by a reckless urge, he has to see it through—

So he goes on: “I’m very jealous. I don’t think he loves _me_ nearly as much.”

Jim’s face registers surprise, then smooths out to tenderness. He touches Freddie’s cheek with his fingertips. “Tell Jerry that I’m sorry, and as fond as I am of him, he comes in second to you, Freddie.”

Freddie’s breath catches. He pets Jerry distractedly with one trembling hand as his heart grows bigger and bigger in his chest—it will break out, it will burst from him and lie on the floor, swelling like a balloon. “Really?” he breathes. Pathetically. Uselessly.

“Really,” Jim promises. He leans down, slowly, carefully telegraphing his movements, and Freddie meets him halfway in a frantic rush, crashing their mouths together. His eyes are still open, and he can see Jim’s lashes folded softly against the skin of his cheeks, dark and tender, and he immediately bursts into tears.

Jim exclaims and holds him close, rocks him, smooths his tears away, lets him rest his head on his shoulder, and Freddie can’t explain what’s happened—can’t put into words how love for even Jim’s eyelashes overwhelmed him and put him in this state. He sits pressed up to Jim, bundled up tightly in his blanket and Jim’s arms, and Jerry grumpily finds somewhere else to sit.

“Do you need Peter?” Jim asks, clearly worried, rubbing Freddie’s shoulder through the blanket.

“No,” Freddie says honestly. His voice is thick from crying. He tips his forehead onto Jim’s shoulder and listens to him breathe, feels his warmth. “I just need you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Michael Deacon was born on February 3, 1978. Queen decided before they left on their spring 1978 European tour to become tax exiles.
> 
> Thank you all again for sticking with me on this journey! I will see you all next time. If you want to talk to me before then, I am always ready to talk Freddie and Jim and Queen in general on [my tumblr](https://oatrevolution.tumblr.com).


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